Shouts of the Medic
by DisappearingKangaroo
Summary: Sequel to "Cries of the Surviving Soldier". The aftermath of Brenton Walker looms above the two flatmates, who don't really know where to go now that John's back at 221B.
1. Manilla Folder

**A/N Welcome to the sequel to** ** _Cries of the Surviving Soldier_** **! I would recommend reading the first one, well, first, but if you don't, nothing is stopping you. Just a few things (probably more than a few) won't make sense.**

 **Thanks for taking some time to read this!**

 **~Jules**

 **Warnings: Panic attacks (everyone experiences these differently, I'm just exploding the symptoms that I get)**

 **Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, but the plot is.**

To say that John woke up scared would be an understatement.

No, he woke up _terrified_.

When he opened his eyes the first thing his brain told him was to get out of this place. He had to find a way to escape, then find Sherlock, or anyone, and then kill Brenton. So naturally, the first thing he did was try and get out of the bed. He feels the pinch of the IV being pulled out of his arm, but at the moment he couldn't care less. Unfortunately, when he hits the floor, none to nicely, someone notices him.

As soon as this happens, Sherlock also gets down from his bed, careless of his injuries, focusing just on his flatmate.

But now that someone has noticed him, there's no point in being quiet anymore. "No! Stop!" John throws a few punches to whoever is attacking him, until another person comes up behind him. "Nooo!" The person behind him holds his right arm by his side, but lets his left arm down, probably because of the injury. Amatuer. He tries to swing his left arm up to hit the man in front of him, but immediately cries out from the pain and instead loses his balance while sitting.

John squeezes his eyes shut, he really doesn't want to see the men who are going to cause his demise. Not because he's a coward, but because we wants to have some peace before he dies.

"...ohn. John. John?"

The good doctor eventually looks up to see a very familiar face. "Sherl?" He mutters, throat scratchy and uncomfortable.

"Yes, yes, it's me. Just breathe. Innnn and ouuuttt." Sherlock soothes, crouching down next to John and putting a hand on his leg. "Just um… Try and match my breathing…" Sherlock had heard other people say that before. Perhaps he'd try it out and now and see if it really works.

John really does try and control his breathing, but it's so damned hard to. His throat feels like it's made out of rocks, and he still doesn't really know where he is or what is going on. A couple seconds later he is hyperventilating again, and this time he even faintly realizes it.

"No, no. John. Just match my breathing. Please?"

Lestrade, who has now released John's other arm, and John both pause and stare at Sherlock for using that word. Even to the detective it feels foreign, only using it in dire situations. The last time being when he was begging his brother to help find John.

The doctor nods slowly, trying to focus on a spot on the ground and trying to control his breathing. Lestrade hurries out of the room in an attempt to find a doctor, which leaves the two flatmates to themselves, something that hasn't happened for far too long.

"Please John, just try and breathe. Lestrade is getting a doctor." Sherlock feels awfully useless, making him use 'please' yet again. The detective is immediately on a higher worry when he sees that tears have begun to fall from John's face. "John? What hurts?" He mentally kicks himself; what a stupid question.

"Oh God…" John murmurs, and hangs his head, letting tears fall freely, not caring about the consequence. "I- I thought…"

"Shhh. It's okay." Sherlock soothes, even though he knows that it is far from it. "Just. Just breathe." He says, pulling his feet from under him and sitting fully next to his flatmate.

"Knee." John mutters, glancing at his injured limb with a mournful look.

"It's okay. Don't move yet. The doctor will help when he comes." Sherlock says, not wanting to upset the injuries anymore than John already has. "Just work on breathing." He adds, still not happy with the hiccups plaguing his friend's breathing.

John just nods in a reply and shifts slightly, in an effort to release some pressure on his knee. He eventually leans his head onto Sherlock's shoulder after finding it too difficult to keep it up.

When the doctor and Lestrade come back in the see the two flatmates each looking absolutely exhausted and each of them looking like they're about to completely pass out.

Although when Sherlock turns his head to see the doctor, it's not Dr. Abaine. Instead it's a middle aged woman with glasses and her hair pulled tightly into a bun. She treads in lightly and sits down next to Sherlock in front of John.

When she talks it sounds like her voice is honey, in a very calming type of way. "John? Can you look up at me?"

After a few seconds John takes a steadying breath and nods slightly. When he looks up his glassy eyes immediately search for Sherlock's blue ones. The next thing he notices is that Sherlock's face is slightly twisted up in a grimace, which immediately sparks John into worry. "What…?" He trails off, not really knowing where he was going with that sentence.

The new doctor speaks up again, "John, I need you to look at me. Sherlock is fine, you don't need to worry." Her voice is just as sweet as it was the last time, and John almost feels guilty for not doing what she said.

The good doctor looks up at the new woman and moves his hand to brush the hair out of his face. To his concern the hand is slightly bandaged. He doesn't ever remember getting cut… Why can't he remember it? What if there's more he can't remember? What if he was drugged? What happened? What if th-"

"John, look at me." The woman's voice dissipates his forming thoughts, but only for a second.

"I- Why- It…" John can tell that his breathing is picking up again, but he can't stop it. Pure worry is lacing itself through John's entire body. And oh God he can feel it, it's taking over… "No. No. NO!" John scrambles from his position and tries to back away, but he doesn't get very far because some is preventing him from escaping.

No, he got so close! He can't give up now.

As quickly as the good doctor can, he tries to pull himself off the floor. But while he's doing so he feels a liquid run down his arm. When he looks he sees the oh so familiar color of blood.

There's a small part of John's brain that's telling him that he's having a panic attack and should really calm down, but most of his brain is either telling him to run as fast as he can, or roll over and die.

In the outside world there are a few "John"s going around, but it all feels muted like they're talking through foam. Something clicks in his brain telling him that once auditory senses are gone it's going to be moments until he snaps, but the rest of his body is telling him to run away from Brenton.

He tries to stand up, but he instantaneously falls to the floor after putting the smallest amount of weight on his bad knee.

A body hovers around him, and John knows that this is the end. There is no way that he's ever going to get out of here. Instead he's going to die at the hands of one of his old comrades. He curls himself into a ball and pulls his head in, wishing that this would all finally end so he could die.

John's knee is still put out at an awkward angle due to the fracture, but he knows that these people can still take full advantage of that. A hand comes to rest on his good shoulder, and John flinches, but doesn't move. He knows that all of his efforts are futile at this point.

He then feels a small prick in his leg, and then the voices stop, and his vision goes black.

Everyone in the hospital room lets out a breath when John stops shaking and eventually falls unconscious in the corner of the room. Sherlock inches himself closer to John, but then doesn't know what to do. You can't really comfort an unconscious flatmate. Friend, actually. Though if we're being technical the term 'best friend' might be more appropriate.

Disrupting the silence the new doctor says, "Mr. Holmes, I understand your concern for John Watson, but you need to be resting."

Sherlock opens his mouth to disagree, but Lestrade interrupts with, "Now, Sherlock. Get back on the bed." His voice is hard and stubborn, almost opposite of the woman's.

Begrudgingly Sherlock moves to get back on his bed. Lestrade and the doctor both help him get up, and then the doctor re-inserts his IV line which got disconnected in the past… bustle.

Then the doctor and Lestrade slowly and carefully pick up John, attentive to his injuries, and place him back on the bed.

Looking at Sherlock she says, "I'll be back quickly, but for the mean time please stay in bed." Then with a quick nod to Lestrade she hustles out of the room, her small frame not letting her go very fast.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asks, sitting himself down in the plastic chair next to the bed. "You doing alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Was the curt response that came from the Consulting Detective.

"Because you just witnessed your best friend have a severe panic attack and you still have a healing bullet wound. Any of this ring a bell?" He asks with his eyebrows raised.

"I am _fine_. Sherlock replies angrily, even though he's not fooling himself or the DI.

"Right then. Do you want anything?"

"Some peace and quiet away from imbeciles sounds great right now." Sherlock replies sarcastically, turning his head away from Lestrade and toward the bed that holds his drugged flatmate.

"I'm going to chalk that up to the drugs and _not_ take offence to that, but for next time try and be a little nicer." Lestrade says, knowing full well that this conversation is most definitely over.

"Hmph." Sherlock says, still turned away from the DI.

After about a minute passes by, the woman comes back in holding a manilla folder in her hand. She dips her head in greeting and says, "I apologise for the wait, it's ghastly out there. I would've also like to introduce myself earlier, but that wasn't able to happen." Holding out a hand to Lestrade she says, "I am Doctor Melanie Whitley, somewhat of a specialist, and I've been called in my who I understand is your brother," She says pointing at Sherlock, "Mycroft Holmes, to help John Watson. To make things easier I have relieved Dr. Abaine of over seeing you too, Sherlock."

Looking up at her, and slightly wondering when his brother stopped being so incompetent, Sherlock says, "What happened to John?"

With a sigh she says, "There's something that you have to understand, and that is that many, if not all, mental issues are not black and white. People experience trauma in very different ways. Because I can not talk to the patient - John - at the moment about what happened, I can only guess.

"And…?" Sherlock says, clearly not being satisfied with her answer.

"My guess is that after waking up in a place he doesn't remember falling asleep in, it triggered past memories, as well as the stress of the last couple of weeks. As I understand you were able to help him through that." Melanie says with a curt nod toward Sherlock. "The second attack he experienced was more severe though, as you could probably tell. I will work on what triggered the attack, and we will go from there." She takes a longish breath after that sentence and looks at the two other men in the room to make sure that she's not overwhelming them with too much information.

"I would like to advise you to - not necessarily walks on eggshells - but to not bring up any events regarding…" She looks down and opens the manilla folder, scanning it a bit before continuing, "Brenton Walker. At least for the time being."

Lestrade and Sherlock both nod, not really knowing how to reply.

"Now, Sherlock, you are also my patient now, so I will advise you to please, get some rest. Your wound has been aggravated far too much since the initial shot." With another one of her nods she says, "Ta." And leaves the room with her manilla folder.

A few seconds pass before Lestrade turns to Sherlock and says, "She means that. Get some rest. John isn't going anywhere."

A supposedly sweet statement, trying to show his affection, but Sherlock finds it the opposite. Because with John's health at the moment, he wouldn't be surprised if he tried to punch and kick his way out of the hospital. Granted, he wouldn't get anywhere because of his _physical_ injuries, but one's mind can take a person a long way away.

"Sherlock." Lestrade's thoughts interrupt the Consulting Detective's though process. "Seriously now, just take some time and sleep. Even your _highly functioning sociopathic_ brain needs some rest."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the DI and replies, "Can't sleep. I'm on a case right now."

Lestrade looks at him with eyes of disbelief. What case could you possibly be one right now? You've been trying to track down John's kidnapper all up until yesterday- and that was only because you fell unconscious!"

"Yesterday? Oh dear, I most definitely do not need sleep if that really is true."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade takes a breath and tries to talk more quietly, after all, John is still in the room. "My point is, the case is closed. Brenton Walker was found, and your insane brother has him locked up somewhere. Now, get. Some. Sleep."

"I am on a case! Or perhaps your boring little brain already forgot?" Sherlock says condescendingly.

"Well then I will also reiterate: What bloody case?" Lestrade says, again, trying not to punch the man in the bed in front of him.

Sherlock stops staring at John and looks up at the DI. "The case of John H. Watson."

 **A/N Hey friends! There's this wonderful button down below labeled "review"! If you click it and write even just two words it'll make my day 1000 times better! Even if you don't have an account, just leave a review as a guest!**


	2. Damn My Memory!

**A/N Oh jeez sorry for the late update. Had some laptop troubles, I almost had to write this at my friend's house. I've also used a lot of my extra time to write my original, rather than this... Anyhow, here's a new chapter!  
~Jules**

 **Disclaimer: Still don't own the characters *sadface***

A few hours later from The Incident, Lestrade had left - something about paperwork - Sherlock wasn't really listening. The poor DI had given up on getting Sherlock to sleep, so he eventually just settled with him not getting out of bed. More often than not, Lestrade would glance up and see Sherlock looking at his flatmate. So far from a sociopath.

But now Lestrade was gone, so Sherlock was left to his own devices until John woke up. And of course the second no one else was in the room, he shuffled out of bed to walk around and deduce the room. Lucky for the other doctors, Sherlock chose to keep the IV in this time, just dragging the stand along the room with him.

As Sherlock walks around the room, he finds it intriguingly difficult to deduce. This being because each hospital room is thoroughly cleaned after each patient, and objects are moved around back to their original spaces. With his brain muddled with drugs and worry for his flatmate, Sherlock is only able to deduce that the last person using this room was a female recovering from some type of internal injury, and that she was the only patient in the room, which means that this room is originally a single. Which makes sense, private rooms are typically made for just one person.

Eventually Sherlock gets bored and - even though he won't admit it - quite tired, so he goes back to his bed and settles in. Unlike last time, John hasn't made any unconscious noises, which worries and settles Sherlock's nerves. He ends up chalking it up to different drugs. The detective notes that John looks more peaceful sleeping with these drugs.

He slowly lets his eyes fall, finding it ridiculous and boring that humans need this much rest to function. Not a minute later finds the two flatmates both unconscious, both dreaming rather vivid dreams.

John, who had already entered the state of dreaming was reliving some memory from the War, but Brenton Walker was now trying to hurt him. Soon after he died in that dream, he was transported to when he was much younger, hiding in a cabinet from his dad who was drunk and yelling at his mom.

He curls up in the limited space and wishes that this would just end, he doesn't want his dad to be mad again. But, like most of the fights, his dad storms off, and Harry, his mom, and him are left to their own devices. And then his family falls dead. Which doesn't make any sense.

Of course it doesn't make sense, he's dreaming.

Over the years John has almost been able to clearly tell when he's dreaming, but hasn't in awhile. This time when he does notice, the first thing he does is try and wake himself up. But he can't.

No matter what he does, he isn't able to wake himself up. Worry begins to weave itself in and out of the medic's brain, and even in his dream state he can tell that this can't be good.

Sherlock on the other hand, has a very different, almost calming dream. His is also from a memory, when Mycroft and him were both at home. He was six, but Mycroft was twelve, which meant that he would go off to boarding school next year. Little Sherlock was not happy about this, so Mycroft was trying to cheer him up.

They decided to play chess. Mycroft, being six and a half years older, of course won. After the four games they played, Sherlock had decided that he was the dumb one, until he asked to play a game against mummy.

Mummy said "yes", which was no surprise, who wouldn't humour their small child in a game of chess. Except that the first game was rather close. And so was the second one. And by the third, Sherlock had won a game of chess against his mummy.

When he went up excitedly to tell his dad, he looked at his face. He had a coffee stain on him. That meant that he had coffee. When Sherlock asked about this, his dad said that he was right.

Sherlock was much more proud off that, not the chess game. He spent the rest of the day trying to figure out, _deducing_ if you will, what had happened before he got there. Smiling, Sherlock was woken up by John's heart monitor, which was aggravatingly beeping.

The detective tried to rouse his flatmate, which, much to his relief, worked on the third try.

He decided to speak first, so they wouldn't have a repeat of earlier. "John, calm down, look at me. No, me. Yes." He takes a breath before continuing, "You're completely safe, you're at Barts. We found you in someone's house barely alive, after you called me. You remember that, yes?"

John, who is still white as a sheet eventually nods, and lets his eyes rest on Sherlock's.

"You're safe now. It's okay."

"Brenton?" The doctor questions, clearly unsettled.

"Mycroft has him. He won't be getting out anytime soon." Sherlock soothes, hoping that he is able to calm down his flatmate. "It's okay now."

"When did I get here?" John asks, referring to the hospital.

"I don't know exactly… I was also unconscious, but I believe around twelve hours ago."

"Why were you unconscious?"

"Er, a little mishap with my stitches."

Sherlock can see that his flatmate is not happy with this answer, and therefore not surprised when his next question was, "Why…?"

"When Brenton 'fetched' you from the last hospital, he well, shot me."

John's reaction was not what Sherlock was expecting. "So I didn't imagine that?"

"No." The Consulting Detective says with a sigh.

"Sherlock." John says plainly, cutting him off guard.

"Yes?"

"I need to get out of here. Out of this hospital, I mean. I really can't take another hospital. And I haven't been to Baker Street in God knows how long." John rubs a hand over his face, and scrunches up his face seeing the bandaged limb.

Sherlock flinches and his heart accelerates, this was the trigger from the last attack.

"Why is-"

"Just breathe." Sherlock cuts him off. "Don't- Just try and stay calm."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? I am calm. Why is my hand bandaged?"

"Stay calm-"

"Sherlock!" John barks at him, putting down his hand and turning to completely face his flatmate. "Why are you acting like this? Just tell me what happened to my hand."

"You cut it on the counter back at the house. I assume that is from when you tried to grab the phone. Am I correct?"

John shrugs in response, "I don't really know. I couldn't exactly feel it at that point. But yes, I did grab the phone off of the counter" Before his flatmate could interject again, he continues, "Now, why were you freaking out about it?"

"Last time you saw it you got really worried, and must've thought that you were back in the garage… Or something." Sherlock curses at himself, this was literally the one thing that Melanie told him not to talk about.

" 'Last time'?" John questions, with a stern face, obvious that he's not gonna let down.

"Er, I guess. We have a new doctor she'll talk to you about it."

"Sherlock." John says as a warning, "What aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling, finding it more interesting than the conversation at hand. "We'll talk about it later with the doctor."

John sighs and eventually lets it go. As long as they talk about it sometime. As it turns out, that 'sometime' was closer than he thought.

Not five minutes later Melanie comes into the room. As soon as she sees John a smile grows on her face. "Good to see you awake, Dr. Watson." She notes, writing something down on her clipboard. "How long have you been awake for?"

" 'John' is just fine, and not for too long. Maybe a few minutes?" He sighs and says, "Don't have my watch, so I'm not too sure. After all of this past rubbish God knows where it could be."

"It's been four and a half minutes." Sherlock pipes up from the other bed, quite obviously listening in to the conversation. By now John knows that no conversations are private around Sherlock Holmes.

The blogger looks at his flatmate and jokes, "What, were you counting?" But after he sees Sherlock's face he says, "Oh bloody-. You were. You were actually counting. Oh Lord."

Sherlock makes a short humming sound, but otherwise doesn't say anything, neither confirming nor denying John's suspicions.

With a grin at the flatmates Melanie says, "John, how are you feeling?"

"Eh. Pretty good considering. I assume this is the fault of some pain meds?" John has been a doctor long enough to knows that a broken knee wouldn't feel like this with just rest. Minimal rest at that.

"Indeed. We've reduced them significantly though." With a glance to the monitor next to John she asks, "Pain on a scale of one to ten?"

"Not too bad. Maybe a three?"

With a scoff Sherlock says, "Please, John, do stop being so modest. Due to your high threshold of pain, I'd say that you're closer to a 'six' right now, if you're actually using this ridiculous system."

"Sherlock!" John scolds, turning to face him. He then shifts back to face Melanie, but not without a grimace that definitely didn't go unnoticed.

"Well, if you, _as the patient_ ," Melanie says with a quick glare at Sherlock, "Say that the pain is only at a three, we'll keep the pain meds at their current level." Sherlock scoffs yet again at this, but otherwise no objections are made.

"Sounds fine to me." The older man says, also casting a glare at his flatmate. "Listen, don't want to sound rude, but what happened to Dr. Abaine? He's okay, right?" John really doesn't want anyone - er - anyone else to get hurt because of him.

"Don't worry, he's just fine. Mycroft Holmes has called me in from the other side of England to take over Dr. Abaine's position."

"Ah." John nods in understanding. When Mycroft Holmes tells you to do something, you better do it. Powerful man, he is.

"Now, Sherlock. How is your pain, also from a one to ten?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the dumb question, refusing to answer something so menial. "Boring."

"Sherlock." John says, "Don't be a bloody baby. You're never going to get out of here unless you're nice to the staff."

"Not necessarily true. When I was twenty Mycroft got me out and I didn't say a single word." Sherlock counters, needing to be right in the matter.

"Oh for Christ-" John takes a steadying breath, "First of all, you're going to explain to me what happened when you were twenty, but during another far less stressful time. Second of all, I'm going to punch your brother when I can painlessly do so. Third of all, answer the damned question!" John's heart monitor spikes a bit at that last sentence, his patience coming to a very short end.

With crossed arms, Sherlock replies, "Fine." The other flatmate is surprised that he didn't stick out his tongue like a child. He wouldn't exactly put that above the detective. "My pain is not even a 'one'. John on the other hand, I've seen murder victims that were in less pain before their untimely deaths, you really do need to give him-"

"Sherlock!" John interjects, voice riddled with defeat.

With a grin spread apart her face, put there by the duo's squabble, Melanie says, "Very well then. If you are still fine for the rest of the day, you can be discharged. You've obviously proved that you can move just fine, but please no extraneous movements like earlier." She warns, causing John to raise an eyebrow in concern. "You on the other hand," She says nodding to John, "Are not leaving so easily."

Sherlock throws his friend a sly smile as if he won a prize that John didn't. Which in some ways, is exactly the situation at hand.

"Other than your physical injuries, which, don't get me wrong, are far from a scratch, you will also need to heal, psychologically speaking, before I would feel comfortable of you discharging." Melanie says to John with a sweet voice that sounds so familiar, but he can't quite place it. "We'll work more on this later today, but just to reference this, what do you remember last, before you woke up eight minutes ago?"

"I called Sherlock after breaking into someone's house… And then there was quite the commotion a few… Minutes afterward. That's all." John says honestly, looking down as if embarrassed.

Melanie writes a quick note down on one of the pages in the manilla folder, then nods and says, "Thank you. Now, please try and get some more rest. I know that it sounds incredibly redundant, but it really will help. The sun's only just come up. Originally I only came here to make sure everything was alright since Detective Inspector Lestrade left. Nice man, he is."

"Greg was here?" John questions, looking at Sherlock.

"...Greg?"

"Lestrade, Sherlock! By now I'd assume that you'd know his name!" John says, shaking his head.

"Oh. Yes then, he was here. Not for long though." Sherlock says, choosing to make no comment on the name.

"I'm surprised he stayed at all, if it's really this early. Doesn't he need his own sleep?" John says, knowing that he needs to take Lestrade for a pint once all of this shite is over.

"It's a good thing he did." Sherlock mutters, but loud enough for John to hear.

"What? Why?" The blogger questions, looking from Melanie to Sherlock in attempt to find the answer to a question that he knows he's not going to get.

The detective speaks up first, "Nothing. No reason." John sighs at his friend's crappy lie and opens his mouth to respond before Melanie beats him to the punch.

"We will talk later about this John." She gives an annoyed look at Sherlock, but then continues to John, "I will explain everything, and any of your questions, but just save it for a few hours. It really would be in your best interest if you take some time to sleep."

"Dull!" Was Sherlock's automatic reply, who looked as if he was about to get out of bed.

"Like I said, it would be best to sleep, but I can't force you to do anything." Melanie then nods and walks out of the room, letting the door drift almost close.

As soon as she was out of earshot John immediately speaks up, "Alright now, what that bloody hell happened, and why can't I remember it?"

 **A/N Kind of a rubbish chapter, but I promise there will be more action next one!**

 **You should totally make my day and review, even if it's just two words!**


	3. Disgusting Emotions

**A/N I originally had written this chapter to John doing something more irrational, but then I realized that it probably wouldn't be for the best... Also- Two chapters in two days?! On the other hand, I feel like this story is going downhill fast, I'd like to apologise for that.**

 **Disclaimer: Just as last chapter, I only own the plot of my story. *sighs***

"I can't tell you yet, John." Sherlock says quietly, wishing that Melanie would burst back in the room and stop the awkwardness that seems to be choking him at the moment. "Melanie will tell you when the time is right."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why can't you just tell me?" John stares at his flatmate with an anger that Sherlock hasn't seen in ages. The last time being when he randomly went gallivanting around London for a case. Then with a quieter voice the blogger says, "Sherlock, did I hurt anyone?"

"No, not at all. Nothing bad happened, I just can't tell you…" He trails off, not wanting to get into this, because he knows that Melanie will not be happy about it. She's already mad at him for telling John that much. "Just try and sleep John. I'm sure that you'll get your answers soon enough."

"Yeah, you two keep telling me that, but so far I haven't learned anything." John points out.

"To be fair John, you've only been conscious for ten minutes."

John rubs his face with his hand and says, "I guess you're right. I wish all of this was just over. I'd kill to go back to 221B and just go back to solving crimes."

With a smile Sherlock says, "That's a little alarming, hearing from you that you'd like to kill someone."

"Like I've said before, I've had my bad days" John smiles back at him and can't help but feel a bit better from the banter that never ceases to exist between the two.

And then Mycroft walks in, completely dissipating John's short lived happiness. "Brother dear. John." He says, nodding at the two of them.

Sherlock says "Mycroft" back mockingly and gives him a look. "What do you want now? Can't you see that we're quite busy?"

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and says, "Is that so? Because to me it simply appears as if you two were laying there."

"Piss off." Sherlock says, turning to face John instead of his insufferable brother.

"Glad to see that you're feeling better, brother. I do hope you're enjoying the presence of Doctor Melanie Whitley." The elder Holmes says, ignoring the mood of his younger brother.

After a few seconds go by and Sherlock refuses to speak, John says, "Mycroft, you have enough power to wage wars on countries, if you're wasting your time checking in on us, can you at least let me go back to Baker Street?"

"Highly unadvisable, John. I spoke shortly with Dr. Whitley, and as far as she's concerned, you are in no condition to be going to places without supervision." Mycroft says, leaning a bit on his umbrella.

"I'm not a bloody child, Mycroft! I don't need 'supervision' to go to my own home!" John says, ready to get out of the bed to punch Mycroft. Oh, and he still needs to punch him from a certain incident from when Sherlock was twenty… These punches do seem to be racking up. Soon he'll have a full blown pummel on the British Government.

"John, we are well aware that you aren't a child, but at the moment having someone around at all times is not such a bad idea."

"I have your brother, perhaps you forgot, he lives with me?" John says, determined to get out of the sodding hospital.

"Yes, but see, my brother on the other hand is much of a child. I'd hate for him to have to take care of you _and_ himself. As you've probably learned from other occasions, he can't even do the simple task of feeding himself." Mycroft chooses to ignore the rather nasty look his brother shoots him and continues, "Besides, your flat is riddled with stairs, and with that broken knee…" Mycroft clicks his tongue and says, "For now, John, I'd listen to the doctor's advice."

John, who had enough points to make a stand, including Mrs. Hudson and not sleeping in his room, eventually lets down, knowing that this is indeed a losing battle. "Fine. But I do expect to be out of here soon."

The politician ignores John's last comment and looks at his brother. "Sherlock, stop acting so childish. Mummy said that you would eventually stop, but it appears that I was correct, with the hypothesis of you never growing out of it." He smirks, but only for a second, and John isn't sure if he really saw the most powerful man in London smirk, or if he was just imagining it.

"Is Brenton Walker dead?" Sherlock questions, and then mentally punches himself a thousand times over because John makes a short gasping sound. He hears he defeated sigh from his brother, and he mentally punches him too.

"Doctor Watson?" Mycroft asks, which means that Mycroft must know about the unfortunate events that took place a few hours ago. "I am going to get Dr. Whitley. You, Sherlock," He says glaring at his little brother, "Don't do anything stupid. We don't need another one of these events." And with that he walks out of the room rather swiftly, but still too slow for Sherlock's liking.

"John?" The detective asks, in the softest voice possible. "Are-"

He gets interrupted by his flatmate, who is breathing rather harshly. "Where is he now?"

"Mycroft has him. Not here. Somewhere private, where he'll never get out."

"I killed Tyson Bowers… That's what this entire thing is. It's because I killed him."

Before Sherlock has a chance to ask who that is (although he does have quite the hunch), Melanie comes bustling in, with a concerned but determined face.

"John, tell me what you're thinking of." She says, a command but in her honey voice it sounds innocent and sweet.

"Tyson Bowers…" John mutters, and then scratches his arm, probably unconsciously, Sherlock deduces.

"What about him?" Melanie soothes, sitting down on a chair next to John and his bed.

"I killed him."

"And why would you say that?"

"Left him to die… Oh God." Surprising Sherlock, a sob racks John's fragile frame, and he buries his head in his hands. He keeps his head buried in his hands and continues to blame himself for the world's troubles (such a Watson thing to do), until Sherlock can't take it anymore.

Sherlock moves to stop John, but Melanie holds up a hand in his direction, so he begrudgingly stays in his bed, watching his flatmate blame himself.

The detective then abruptly gets up out of his bed, tears his IV out and goes out into the corridor that houses the private rooms. With a quick glance to a sign he heads out toward the waiting room in hopes of finding his brother, something that was unimaginable a few minutes ago.

As Sherlock got to the waiting room he got stares from many people. The prominent ones being from the families, all sitting in the chairs looking rather defeated, presumably from their dying loved ones. But there were many hospital staff members also staring him down, about to rush up to him and force him to sit down. Though at the moment, Sherlock only cared about one set of prying eyes.

Luckily, those eyes found him almost instantaneously.

"Sherlock!" His brother calls out, with a rare face of concern, He quickly leads the younger man to an empty chair, relatively away from people. "Please brother, sit down before you fall down."

The detective obliges, and almost collapses into the chair, a hand reflexively pressed against his side. This really can't be good for his stitches. "John…" Sherlock mutters, completely ignoring all of the concerned family members who are slowly migrating to the other side of the room.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, squatting down so he is in his brother's line of sight. "What happened?" Then with more haste, "Is Doctor Watson in need of medical attention?"

The younger Holmes shakes his head. "Melanie is already with him." He says quietly, leaning into the side of the chair. Mycroft nods a bit, happy that he was able to find Dr. Whitley so quickly.

A nurse then comes up to usher them away from the now close-to-terrified families in the waiting room. Mycroft waves her off, but does attempt to calm his brother down. Such a strange situation to be in for either of the Holmes. All of these emotions showing is making them awfully uncomfortable. "It's alright now, I'm sure that John will be just fine."

"No, Mycroft… He was blaming himself for it all. Why does he believe that it was his fault? Why can't he just see anything but his flaws?" Sherlock swallows, feeling strangely nauseous. Is this how everyone else feels when someone is in danger? It's awful! How do people go about their lives if they worry so much?

"Sherlock, we can't stay here, in this room. I'd rather not pick up the pieces of scared families." Oh Lord, the paperwork for all of this. Mycroft decides to not mention the fact that John may be hurting himself, in fear that it will make his brother's emotional state worse.

"Can't go back there. Not when John is…" Sherlock trails off, not wanting to think of these events. It's all his fault too- for bringing up Brenton Walker.

"We'll go to a different room then," Mycroft says, grabbing his brother's arm so he can stand. "But we can't stay here." here's to paying for another hospital room, the government official thinks.

The younger Holmes nods absentmindedly, and lets himself be guided out of the waiting room and into a small empty room. The nurse from earlier shows the two Holmes the way, and then helps Mycroft get Sherlock on the bed. After he is, everyone in the room takes a steadying breath.

Quickly the nurse speaks up, "Mr. Holmes, how much sleep have you gotten lately?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but Mycroft talks first, knowing that his brother would lie. "He didn't sleep for three days, then got shot, almost bleeding out, then as soon as consciousness returned, he ran about London, pulling his stitches and again, almost bleeding out, and has refused to sleep since then. He's gotten minimal sleep from drugs."

The younger Holmes would love to send his brother a nasty look and perhaps a conversation about keeping those damned 'secret' cameras out of his flat, but all of his brain power is currently being used to toward concern for his flatmate.

"I'll be back in a second- don't move." The nurse announces, then bustles out of the room.

"You've been awfully reckless lately, brother." Mycroft says in a matter-of-fact tone. "Sleep is a crucial part of human health."

Sherlock growls at his brother and says, "You of all people should not be lecturing me about sleeping habits." He then presses his hand against his hospital gown, which is still bleeding from the IV being pulled out.

Mycroft hums at his brother's comment and says, "I sleep for the minimal amount of time in order for my brain to function, unlike you, who disregards the subject matter as a whole."

"I don't sleep on cases, Mycroft." Sherlock says coldly, not wanting anyone near him at the moment unless it's his flatmate.

"I'm quite sure that Doctor Watson wouldn't be pleased if he knew that his psyche was being treated as a case, brother." Mycroft points out, as the nurse comes back in with a syringe.

Sherlock sees the needle and moves to get off of the bed. "Sorry Mr. Holmes." The nurse says, pushing him back down. "Don't worry though, it's just a sedative. It's quite obvious that the amount of sleep that you've been getting is inadequate, which can cause panic more easily than normal. As you may have noticed, you've been acting irrational, and the lack of sleep is not helping one bit. It may pinch, but it'll only last a second." She then pushes the needle into Sherlock's skin and lets the contents enter his bloodstream.

"Sleep well, brother dear." Mycroft says, nodding to the nurse who is leaving the room.

"Check on John, Mycroft." Sherlock says, determined to fight the sedative going through his body.

"As you wish." Was Mycroft's curt reply, also leaving the room.

Sherlock moves to get up, but if he's being honest, sleep really doesn't sound that bad. So he lays back in bed, curling up in a ball, his ideal sleeping position.

He is asleep within minutes.

…

When Sherlock walks up, his is in the same room as he fell asleep in, and there is no IV in his hand. And to ruin his day further, his brother's presence is plaguing the room. "No IV?" He asks.

"You've caused too much trouble pulling it out, so they've decided to just leave it out all together. Besides, you can easily eat and drink, there's really no need for it." Mycroft is wearing the same thing, and still has the same umbrella from when he fell asleep, so Sherlock knows that it couldn't have been too long.

Already getting tired of talking with his brother about useless events, he asks, "John?"

"Doctor Watson is just fine now, Sherlock. Both of you will be returning to Baker Street as soon as possible. It is 15.03 at the moment."

Sherlock nods and gets up from the bed when he sees a pile of clothes on the chair next to the door. "Have you done something useful brother?" He asks, nodding to the clothes.

"Seeing as how you're going to be leaving in the near future, I do believe that you'd prefer to be in actual clothes. Personally I've never cared for these flimsy sheets that they call 'gowns'." Mycroft makes a disgusted face and awkwardly looks away from his brother. "I will be out in the waiting room, if you are need of assistance. And please, do not tear your stitches while you dress." He advises, and then leaves.

With great haste for someone who has a wound in their side, Sherlock pulls on his clothes, along with his famous Belstaff, feeling more at home than he has in quite some time. When he finishes, Sherlock skips finding his brother (he really doesn't want to see that face for a long while), and goes straight to the room that John is occupying.

To his relief John is sitting on the edge of the bed looking completely normal, except for the fact that his is struggling to put on his jumper.

"Need help?" Sherlock questions, causing John to jump in surprise.

"Er, as much as my dignity says 'no', I do believe so." He replies sighing. Sherlock comes over and pulls the jumper over his head and through his arms, ignoring John's weak protests of being able to do it himself.

"It's quite obvious that you couldn't. I'm merely giving you a less painful solution to putting your clothes on. At this rate, I have no idea how you got your trousers on."

"Sherlock!" John says, rolling his eyes but leaving his sling off, making his flatmate frown.

"Why aren't you putting your sling back on?"

"It's really not that bad. Some painkillers, I'll be fine. Besides, I'm not going to be using a bloody wheelchair. We probably couldn't even fit that in our flat."

It's obvious that Sherlock doesn't approve of that, but leaves it be. John is probably right in the concern of fitting a wheelchair. Then, tired of ignoring the elephant in the room, he says, "John, about earlier-"

His friend cuts him off and says, "Listen Sherlock, I appreciate your concern, I really do, it's something that I never see from you… But I'd rather not talk about it. I've been talking with Melanie, and she's helping me."

"Just, don't do that again." Sherlock says, looking around the room so he doesn't have to meet John's eyes. "It caused me to display many emotions I didn't like."

John chuckles a bit at that, but nods and says, "Okay" a bit too quiet for Sherlock's liking. He then grabs his crutches and wobbles a bit on them, making sure that his shoulder can really stand this. It hurts a bit, but he can deal with that.

The detective gives him a look, but then nods and says, "Ready?"

"I've been ready since I first woke up to get out of here." John mutters with a smile.

Both of them chose to ignore Mycroft and Lestrade's (when did he get here?) attempts at giving them a ride home, telling them that it's really not that bad to take a cab somewhere.

Mycroft lets it go pretty quickly, and leaves, something about a meeting and Germany, but Lestrade argues with them for a good five minutes to give them a ride. But after those five minutes he finally gives up and gives them enough money to get themselves a cab ride back to Baker Street.

While sitting in the cab, and trying to balance his crutches so they don't block any view of the driver, John says, "One hell of a case, yeah?"

Sherlock smiles at him and says, "Mm. Maybe an eight."

John can't help but chuckle at his flatmate and say, "I thought it was pretty interesting myself."

The two flatmates continue their banter until they reach Baker Street, as Sherlock moves to get out of the cab before it's even stopped, leaving John to pay, just as it's always been.

As the cab pulls away from the kerb, Mrs. Hudson comes out of the door and gives a big hug to both of them, saying something about her boys being reckless and stupid. Sherlock casts John a worried look during the hug, he really isn't accustomed to this event, it's making him rather uncomfortable.

Another few minutes are spent by John and Sherlock complaining about sleeping arrangements.

"You spent the better part of a minute getting up seventeen steps John, you should sleep downstairs in my room."

"Sherlock, for the last time, that is not necessary!"

Eventually the two settle on John sleeping on the couch.

And for the moment, all is well at Baker Street.

 **A/N If you are still interested in this story, please do review! I enjoy reading them!**

 **Also- there was a guest that reviewed asking for advice for writing since he/she was thinking of starting so:**

 **(First of all I am so flattered that you asked me you have no idea)**

 **I'd say to really think through what** **repercussions** **your writing will have if you're writing a multi-chapter fic. Also to re-read your writing many times (something that I don't do enough). And then just write what makes you happy. Try to go outside of your comfort zone! The first time I hurt the characters I felt really bad, but now I'm more comfortable about it, and I can easily break one of their bones (don't know what that says about me).**


	4. Three, Four, Better Lock the Door

**A/N Hey guys thanks for your continuous support, and a special thanks to** **JohnLockSher** **who has been making me smile all weekend! I haven't edited this chapter as much as I usually do, so please tell me if there are any mistakes (this goes for all chapters as well)**

It didn't take long for hell to break out at Baker Street.

John took a quick nap on the couch, and Sherlock went off to Bart's, something about a kidney that Molly had. It was fairly normal, Mrs Hudson was overly ecstatic about her boys being back, apparently Mrs Turner and her married ones had been quite the handful lately. She also went out, having tea with an old mate.

It was when John woke up, that hell broke out. Because as his eyes searched around the familiar items of the flat, they settle on the unmistakable item of a syringe. Which only meant one thing, Sherlock had been using again.

Wait, no. Brenton Walker had placed it there. Which meant that Brenton Walker had succeeded in getting into their flat. Which also meant that he had a way into their flat. Into all of the flats. Into his personal space… No! What if he went through John's personal stuff!

Panic begins to go through John in waves, even though there's a piece of his mind that knows that it's completely irrational panic. Quickly he fumbles with his mobile before calling his flatmate.

After he's dialed the number his thumb hovers over the 'call' button, too afraid to press it. Sherlock would much prefer to text anyway. John then cancels the call and goes to text.

 **Come home, need help**

Obscure just like Sherlock's own texts. John could care less at this point. He has certain possessions that he hopes no one will ever see, let alone a murderer out to get him.

 **What is wrong? -SH**

 **Do you need a doctor? -SH**

 **I'm calling Mycroft -SH**

 **Is Mrs Hudson home? -SH**

 **Stay there -SH**

The multiple texts from his flatmate give a short calming effect on the army doctor, but not for long, because he still doesn't fucking know if anyone has been in his room, and if he asks Sherlock then Sherlock will be curious, and he'll probably deduce it, and then more people will know, and the whole purpose of having a private room will be-

 **John? -SH**

To cease his friend's worry and to do something with his hands John sends a text back:

 **Not hurt, just need a hand on something. Don't call Mycroft**

He gets a reply instantaneously:

 **Already called, and I'm in a cab. -SH**

John's phone then rings, the name 'Sherlock Holmes' lighting up the screen, but John declines the call and curls up on the couch. He feels a bit like his flatmate, all curled up in a ball, although John assumes that they curl up for different reasons.

The ex army doctor stays on his couch for a fair amount of time, too afraid to move around, incase Brenton has placed objects around the flat.

He doesn't know how much time has passed until his flatmate comes bursting through the door, holding a gun (how and where did he get that?) and looking around the flat for threats. Instead he finds his blogger wrapped up in the couch.

"John?" He asks tentatively, setting the gun down on a piece of furniture. "Is everything alright?"

"I need to get up to my room." John mutters into the pillows, not bothering to turn his body.

Sherlock stays still, not wanting to scare John. "I-I don't think that-"

"Please, Sherlock." John finally looks up at his friend with a face of worry, his left hand slightly shaking, which he is currently failing at hiding.

Sherlock inches his way closer to John until he's sitting on the edge of the couch and says, "If you need something from there I can easily get it for you, or-" He cuts off when he sees his flatmate's face: terrified. "Er, no, that's not a good idea." He says, trying to fix his mistake.

"Just help me get up there?" John asks, sitting up a bit on the couch.

Even though Sherlock's mind is finding one hundred and one things that could go wrong if they try to go up stairs, he can't help but say, "Okay."

The next fifteen minutes are spent trying to find the most efficient way up there, and then the next fifteen are actually getting up there without any injuries. By half an hour, the two are absolutely exhausted, and John's looking alarmingly pale.

"Er, thanks… I just need to…" He trails off, hoping that Sherlock will get the message. He fails to remember that it's Sherlock he's talking to.

"Hmm?"

"Can I look around by myself?" John flat out says, knowing that if he says anything else Sherlock won't understand that right now he needs to be _alone_.

"Oh, yes. I'll just- yeah." The detective quickly turns around and goes back into the kitchen.

 _Shite._ The needle is still down there. "Hold on, Sherlock!" John calls back, not wanting his flatmate to see it, just in case.

In an instant his flatmate comes bounding up the stairs, expecting the worst. Instead all he sees is John exactly where he left him."Is everything… Okay?" Always had such a way with words.

"Yeah, just stay up here?" John asks, and curses himself for how poorly he has phrased that sentence. He then pulls out his phone and texts Mycroft, not knowing what else to do in order for Sherlock to not find the syringe.

 **Come to Baker Street. Downstairs there is a syringe with cocaine that was planted there by Brenton Walker. Don't tell Sherlock.**

And just like every other time John texts the government official, the response is immediate:

 **On my way. -MH**

"Who are you texting?" Sherlock asks, trying to peek over the top of John's phone.

"Sarah." He lies easily, turning his phone off and tossing it on his unused bed.

"Mm." Sherlock looks unconvinced, but it'll just have to do for now.

Now to distract his flatmate without him looking under his bed. John rubs a hand over his face in anticipation for this.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock inquires, looking intently at his flatmate, coming to stand up a bit closer to him.

"Fine. Just a headache." John says easily, since at this point it's not really a lie.

"Did you hit your head on something? Any bleeding? Did someone else hit your head?" Sherlock throws questions at his friend rapid fire style, before John interrupts and cuts him off.

"Sherlock! Just a headache. I'll be fine, and no, no one came into the flat while you were gone." This is going to be more difficult than originally anticipated.

"Oh." The Consulting Detective looks down as if he was in trouble. "Would you like some paracetamol then?"

"No, that's not necessary. It's really not that bad." Anything to keep Sherlock from going downstairs at this point.

Sherlock nods and then looks around before asking, "So why are we up here?"

"To look for anything out of the blue." John says plainly, trying to be as vague as possible, even though this is what he originally came up here to do. Balancing on his crutches, John walks to his closet and peers around his jumpers, trying to prove his point to Sherlock.

"Why?" God, so many questions.

"Just to make sure that Brenton Walker didn't put anything here." Other than a flinch from Sherlock when he said "Brenton Walker", he didn't say anything until a few seconds later.

"Why would he put anything in the flat?" Sherlock questions again, clearly not satisfied with John's answers.

"I'm just making sure, Sherlock."

"But then why go up to your room to check? Because you're not even using your room at the moment, it makes more sense to check downstairs first, perhaps in the kitchen, or around our chairs… But no, you specifically went to your room, went out of your way, in fact to do so, which means that there is definitely something in particular that you're worried about. Not something being placed, but something being stolen…?" Sherlock looks up at john to see if he's right, only to find John's long suffered flatmate face.

"Damn it Sherlock, just help me look." He mutters, wishing that Mycroft would just hurry up already.

"But was I right?" Sherlock questions, like a child in primary school wanting to be the best. John just simply opts for not answering that question.

After about a minute Sherlock stops wandering around John's room and asks, "John?"

"Hmm?" Was his flatmate's elegant response.

"What are you really here for?"

Damn his deductions! John sighs and says, "Really Sherlock, I'm just making sure that nothing was taken and nothing was placed here that could cause harm."

Looking extraordinarily unimpressed, the detective says, "I'd rather you not lie with me John, it's obvious that something is bothering you. And you're lying about how bad your headache is, it's quite easy to deduce that it's been getting worse. Furthermore-" The sound of the flat's front door opening stops both of the flatmates dead in their tracks. John knows that there is no way Mycroft got to the flat this quickly, it's only been a few minutes, and even traffic lights can't change that.

Due to the light padding of feet downstairs, it's obvious that the intruder doesn't know that they're home (obvious to Sherlock, at least. John is too busy having a small panic attack). Sherlock ushers John to his small closet, and then walks downstairs himself.

He avoids steps three and eight, which creak when stepped on, then peeks out to the side in order to see the intruder. As Sherlock expected, it is a male at a height of approximately 180 centimetres. What he wasn't expecting was for said intruder to be holding a handgun.

The detective ducks behind a few pieces of furniture, and can't help but feel like he's back in primary school, playing silly little games with the other children. As he watches the man, it's obvious that he's looking for something in particular. What it could be, Sherlock doesn't know.

After probably deciding that no one was in the flat, the intruder sets his gun down on the table between the duo's chairs. _Ignorant fools!_ The man still continues to rummage through their belongings, even after searching through the kitchen twice.

A small noise from upstairs, presumably John, causes the intruder and Sherlock to reflexively look up. Sherlock immediately hides himself as the man jogs back to his gun, cocks it, and slowly heads up the stairs.

Then, without thinking twice, the detective runs over and tackles the man on the stairs, with a take down that would even make John impressed.

The man shouts out when he comes to hit the ground, but stops short when his head hits the edge of the stair. "What the bloody-!"

Sherlock smirks, all of these imbeciles coming into their flats should learn that the duo can take care of themselves.

"Sherlock!" He hears John shout to him, and when he looks up his flatmate is there at the top of the stairwell, looking awfully concerned.

"Just fine, John!" Sherlock shouts back, mid way up the stairwell, still attempting to subdue the man. When he looks up again to see his flatmate, he sees a look that he recognizes. It's the look that unconsciously comes on when he wants to be doing something. He can't come down and help, he's on crutches, and his browning is downstairs, but he can't just stand there and watch.

Eventually Sherlock gets a good grip on the man's head and slams it down on the next step up, rendering him unconscious. Then with a quick grin to his flatmate he drags the intruder out to the sitting room.

Not wanting to waste another second, John lightly tosses his crutches down the stairs, then sits down. Then, in the least elegant manner possible, he slides his way down the stairs on his butt. The good doctor then retrieves his crutches from the bottom and heads over to Sherlock and the unconscious man.

"Who is he?" John asks, making a face at the man who currently has a stream of blood running down his hairline.

"Since the chances of us getting a regular burglar is about four percent, even less of one not stealing anything - like this man -, I'd say that this man was sent from one of our numerous enemies." The detective answers calmly, as if his flat wasn't just broken into.

With a short disbelieving shake of his head, John says, "Alright now, let me see your stitches."

All he receives is a scoff and, "Please, I'm fine."

"Sherlock, you full on rugby tackled that man," A gesture toward said man, "on wooden stairs! Let me check your wound. And then, where did that come from?" He asks, pointing toward the handgun on the floor.

"Oh, this man brought it with him while attempting to burglarize."

John gives him a look of disbelief. "Sherlock! You're being so bloody reckless! You don't go after a man who has a gun!"

"Yes, but he heard you and was going to go upstairs." Then in a much quieter voice he says, "I couldn't let him hurt you, John."

The older man doesn't say anything at that, and a few labourious seconds pass by until he says, "Just let me check your side."

The Consulting Detective finally nods and lifts up the side of his shirt to reveal the bullet wound that has gone through far too much. Sure enough, two of the stitches have been pulled, and a thin red streak of blood is forming its way down Sherlock's side. John is about to comment on it, until the door clicks, revealing that someone is going to walk into their flat yet again.

Sherlock eyes the intruder's gun, but knows that it's too far away to reach. He then positions himself in front of John, in an effort to protect him from whoever might come through the door. This turns out to be futile, because the person that walks through the door is his damned brother.

When Mycroft walks in his eyes settle on the two flatmates, both on the floor looking like they're both in pain, causing a disgruntled look to appear on the politician's face. He opens his mouth to say something before he sees the third man on the floor, unconscious and bleeding. So he sighs, rubs a hand across his face and says, "What have you gotten yourself into, brother dear?"

Ignoring the question Sherlock asks one of his own, "What are you doing here?"

With a quick glance toward John, who had since positioned himself so he is not behind his flatmate, he says, "Just doing a favour for a friend."

Sherlock snorts at that. "'Friend'? You don't have any friends."

Mycroft makes a short noise, and a suffered look, but otherwise doesn't say anything. The silence only lasts a few more seconds until John interrupts with, "Under the sink in the bathroom there's a med-kit. Mind getting it?"

The British Government stays planted where he is and says, "Perhaps I shall just call Dr. Whitley. You are both obviously in pain, and from what I can tell, you are also bleeding, brother." As suspected, Mycroft gives an unsatisfied look at Sherlock before continuing, "Now, if you don't mind, there is a man in your living room that needs to be dealt with. And yes, Dr. Watson, I do believe calling Dr. Whitley for help is in your best interest."

And then, as if taking a stroll down the garden, Mycroft leisurely walks toward the man's body, discretely taking the previously planted drugs that John told him about. He makes a few texts, smooths out his suit, then leaves the flat without another word.

John leans against the sofa, letting his legs stretch out and tilts his head back before saying, "When did our lives get to a point where we don't even know which criminal mastermind sent people to rob us." He sighs and uses his good hand to massage his shoulder.

"I don't know about you," Sherlock starts with a smile, "But I've always had criminal masterminds out to get me. Multiple."

John can't help but chuckle at that, wondering when and how his flatmate got a sense of humour. It isn't until a minute later that he realizes his flatmate is staring him down. "What are you doing?"

"I was merely-"

"Deducing."

"Realizing." Sherlock corrects, cursing at himself for not noticing - observing, if you will - this sooner. He is about to explain what he realized until another person bursts into their flat (they really, _really_ need a better security system). At least this time they're expecting her.

With a fairly large med-kit in her hands, Melanie exclaims, "Idiots! Why are you back home! This would've been so much better if you were still at the hospital like you should be!" For a petite woman, she sure packs a punch with her words.

"Sherlock's bleeding." John says, before the detective can ignore his own injuries.

"Oh!" Melanie says, closing the short gap between them, and then lifting up Sherlock's shirt. "Hold that up, please." Then wordlessly she puts a gauze on, deciding that replacing two stitches at this stage is not necessary. "What did you do this time?"

"Merely tackled a man on the stairs." Sherlock says, waving the woman off, even though all this does is increase her worry.

"Wha- Why on Earth would you do something like that?! What else hurts? Did you hit your head perhaps? Bang your knee against one of the steps?"

"Fine, just fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?" Melanie questions, staring him down.

"You're worse than John…" Sherlock mutters, making his flatmate smile. "But yes, as I've said before, just fine. John on the other hand, is not. From the way he's looking at us you can easily tell that he's in great pain. His shoulder worse than his knee."

"And what did you do? Also tackle a man in your flat?" Melanie questions, turning from one flatmate to the other.

"Er, no. Just not as good as it could've been." John says, letting his arm go limp so Melanie could inspect it.

"Oh, I knew I shouldn't have let you go on crutches! No more moving than necessary anymore, young man! And from now on you'll be using your sling again." She puts his arm back in the sling, and then stops when she sees the man on the floor. "What… Um, is this the…?"

"The man that I tackled and knocked out? Yes." Sherlock says, as if none of this is interesting. "Just ignore him. My brother has people who will take him."

Turning slightly pale Melanie says, "Right then… If you're alright, I'd better be leaving. I do hate to rush, but I still have patients at the hospital."

"Go ahead, we're fine." John says, with a smile.

She nods at the two, takes her kit and leaves the flat.

Sherlock then helps his friend up onto the couch, where he stretches out and almost falls asleep before the detective says, "John, what are you hiding?"

 **A/N I wonder what John's hiding...? I actually wonder myself, I haven't decided (such a great author, I know). So if you have any ideas please please tell me! I have no idea what personal item John would keep, but if you do, don't hesitate to tell me!**

 **Also I wrote a one shot and published it a few days ago titled "A Study in the Great Game" you should totally check it out...**


	5. Hello Old Friend

**A/N Hey guys, this chapter gets kinda deep... Deep stuff.. And other stuff... (I've always been great with words, I know). A super special thanks to JohnLockSher (again!) for helping me write this chapter!**

 _ **WARNINGS: Self-Harm (cutting, burning)**_

John sighs at the question, knowing that he can't keep anything from the detective for longer than a day. "It's personal, Sherlock."

"So?"

"Sherlock, we've talked about this. People's personal lives are _personal_ for a reason." John warns, giving his flatmate a look.

Sounding like a young child, Sherlock retorts, "But John, I'm curious!"

"And it's _my_ life! You don't get to know everything about me."

With a snort the great detective says, "Please John, the deductions leading to your life is hardly a secret." He pauses before saying, "You could make this easier for the both of us if you'd just tell me what you're hiding."

"For the last damned time, it's _personal_." John growls at his flatmate, with the growing urge to punch him.

Sherlock doesn't say anything at that, but continues to stare at his flatmate, presumably trying to deduce what John's secret is.

A few minutes go by until the door swings open, revealing the men Mycroft sent to take the intruder away.

"Bloody Hell, Sherlock! Lock the sodding door for one time in your life!" John cries out, ignoring the pain that comes with it, as well as the flinch from Sherlock.

Anthea comes into the flat after Mycroft's men, still staring at her BlackBerry. "Mycroft will be coming by later." She notes, John rolls his eyes as she talks and types, seemingly unaware of their current predicament.

Mycroft's people take the man away, leaving the two flatmates to themselves.

Quite tired of the situation, John pushes himself up off of the sofa that he was originally leaning against, and grabs his crutches. "I'm going out." He notes, ignoring Sherlock's weak protests for him to stay.

The older man stomps off (as best he can, given that he's on crutches) and slams the door to the flat behind him. He also locks the door, even though he knows that at this point all of his efforts to keep out intruders are futile. He then silences his mobile, and hails a cab.

Unlike every other time, he's able to hail a cab. Probably from them taking pity on him. Really, no one wants to make a man in crutches walk.

After asking for the nearest Tesco's John stays silent the rest of the ride, hating that he is really going to do this, even after promising himself to stop. He unconsciously scratches his shoulder and bicep, then notices that his tremor in his hand has returned, however slightly.

Pulling out a few pounds from his pocket, John pays the cabbie and goes into the Tesco's, praying that he won't see anyone there that he knows, and no fans of his blog will recognize him. He wanders over to the oh so familiar section of Tesco's where his 'friends' live.

He picks up a pocket knife and quickly goes back to the register. He get's a few looks, but he chalks that up to being on crutches. Luckily for him, the checkout clerk doesn't recognize him, and she gives him a quick smile. John pays with cash, not wanting Mycroft to know where he's been or what he's bought. She hands him his change then turns to the next customer, not thinking anything about the bought item.

John then sends a text to his sister:

 **Can I stay at your place for the night?**

Surprising him he gets a text back immediately,

 **Trouble in paradise? Just kidding. Sure.**

John rolls his eyes at his sister's reply, but is in fact happier than he should be at the response. Stowing away the pocket knife - in his pocket - he hails another cab and gives directions to his sister's house.

Much to John's dismay, the cabbie tries to make light conversation, "What happened to your leg, mate?"

What John wants to say is, 'A man threatened me, shot my best friend (yes, _best_ friend), drugged me, tortured me, then left me to die, and frankly it's a miracle that I'm alive.' But instead he says, "Just a bad accident." Hoping that it'll shut the cabbie up. It doesn't.

"That's unfortunate. My niece broke her arm climbing a tree. Poor soul, can't run and play like the rest of the kids for the time being."

"Hm." John says, looking out the window trying to ignore everything that's going on in his mind. He considers sending a text to Sherlock, but decides that he'll figure it out one way or another. Plus he doesn't want his flatmate deducing anything from the text.

Twenty more minutes of blessed silence go by until he reaches his sister's flat, and until he pays the cabbie. He juggles his crutches out of the door, until he's fully situated, and silently thanks his sister for getting a flat on the first floor.

"Harry!" John shouts out to the empty flat, making sure that his sister isn't here. As he suspected, no one answers, and John wobbles over to the cabinet that he knows contains his sister's cigarettes. He cringes at the multiple packs, and tries to ignore the empty ones as he fishes around to find the lighter. When he finds it he notes that it's relatively new, and he doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing.

The good doctor then trudges up to the guest room and sits on the small bed, feeling a sense of calm wash over him for the first time in ages. He undoes his sling (finally, it was nearly impossible getting around in crutches _and_ a sling - he should get an award for that), and painfully pulls off his jumper. He lightly probes the old thin white scars on his chest and stomach but tries to avoid the burns.

He reaches into his pocket to pull out the knife, happy that it is new and sharp, and sets it next to the lighter. A sense of calm washes over him as he picks up the lighter and watches the flame create shadows across the walls. He brings it up close to his stomach and feels the heat increase until it begins to turn his skin red and irritated. John bites his lip in an effort to not cry out, which is rather pointless since no one is even in the flat.

"Gah." He lets a breath out that he didn't realize he was holding and finally lets the flame stray from his body. Then without hesitating he clicks the pocket knife open and presses it against his stomach and the area around the fresh burn. He makes many lines, criss cross and going over each other before he decides that if he keeps on going it's going to require actual medical attention.

As soon as he sets the blade down the big dilemma comes to his head. "Ah shite." He curses, pressing his jumper against his stomach so he can find a bandage or something to cover this with. At least at 221B he kept spare gauzes for this purpose. What Harry has in her flat, John doesn't know.

Like most households there's a few plasters in the bathroom, Harry has hers underneath the cabinet in the sink. Looking around further he finds a few clean washcloths, which he wets with cold water and places against the burns. He sits on the edge of the tub, letting the cool wash over his injuries. While sitting there he stretches out his left leg, and tries to massage the joints. As he massage his knee he distinctly remember the hammer slamming over his knee. John closes his eyes against the memory.

After a few more minutes of sitting there trying to ignore memories, he drops the now dirty-and-covered-with-newly-dead-skin washcloth into the tub and takes the dry one. While drying it off enough for plasters to stick, he rubs off more skin and curses at the sensitivity.

He picks out the bigger plasters and places it on the deeper cuts, then cleans the bathroom up and hides any evidence.

By the time Harry gets back, John's in the guest room with new wounds and a soiled jumper. It's suspiciously close to how life was when he came back from Afghanistan, but he dispels the thought immediately.

"Johnny!" Harry shouts into the house, dropping something that's probably the shopping on the kitchen counter.

John cringes at the 'nickname' ever since Moriarty began to use it.

"In the extra bedroom!" John shouts back, double checking that he locked the door.

He hears his sister walk over to the outside of the room and, "Hungry? Also, what happened?"

With a sigh the good doctor says, "No, and nothing."

"You mean nothing that you'd like to talk about." Harry corrects, and John can practically hear her smirk. "You love Sherlock Holmes. If something didn't happen, you wouldn't have left."

"God! What is it with you people! I don't _love_ Sherlock! We're bloody flatmates! He barely considers me a _friend_!"

"Whatever, Johnny. Going to sulk in that room all day like when we were kids?"

"I wasn't the sulker. You always stayed in and refused to admit your sexuality."

His sister scoffs at that and says, "Yeah, and who's crashing at whose place now?"

John groans at that and mutters, "Just go away. Don't bother making dinner for me. And don't you dare call Sherlock."

"Fine. But if he calls to confess his love for you, I'm not hanging up."

"Why do you think I'm gay?" John questions obnoxiously, wishing that the world would stop questioning his relationship with his flatmate. Before his sister can respond, he adds, "And if a man named Mycroft Holmes calls, tell him the John says to 'Sod off', then hang up on him."

"Oh-kay…" Harry replies, dragging out the first syllable much longer than necessary.

Then much to John's relief his sister finally leaves the outside of his room. John sighs and flicks the switch to turn off the lights, even though it's barely dark. Other than the light pollution of London flooding through the windows, there is no light in the room, giving the doctor a wave of content. He wanders back to the bed and curls up, trying to find a halfway comfortable position to sleep in.

Surprising John, he falls asleep extraordinarily quickly, albeit restlessly.

…

When he wakes it is only five in the morning, and John still doesn't have a clean jumper, so he doesn't bother going out right now. No shops will even be open. He finally checks his mobile, the light of it assaulting his retinas.

 **John? -SH**

 **What did I say -SH**

 **Mrs Hudson is throwing a fit over this -SH**

 **Do come home -SH**

 **I won't bother you or your personal items -SH**

The texts continue all through the night, confirming his original assumption that his flatmate didn't get any sleep at all. After the tenth continuous text he stops reading them.

Scrolling through his mobile, he also got a text from the other Holmes. Great.

 **Hiding at your sister's house seems quite childish, wouldn't you say? -MH**

The good doctor deletes that text and remembers that he needs to punch Mycroft a third time now. He could be killed for that: beating up the most important man in Britain. Probably not though, because Sherlock wouldn't let that happen. How convenient.

Deciding that he's going to be out of Harry's house one way or another by today, John leaves voluntarily. It won't take long for Sherlock to deduce where he is, if he hasn't already, and he'd rather not be dragged out by his insane flatmate.

Putting his non bloodied undershirt on, John gathers up his few belongings and stows them away in his trouser pockets. He then bundles up his jumper and folds it in a way so no one can see the dried blood on it.

When he goes out to Harry's small kitchen, he writes a quick note to her, mostly an apology (and a reminder that he's _not_ gay).

As one would expect, the temperature in London is rather frigid at five in the morning in the fall. It was around one or two degrees, which John definitely feels through his undershirt. By some miracle (aka, Mycroft, but John doesn't know that) a cabbie pulls up to him, and he gets a ride back to Baker Street.

Walking in, John sees his flatmate curled up on the sofa, which really can't be good for his injury, wearing his silk robe. Damn his light sleeping, because when John closes the door to the flat Sherlock wakes up.

"John? John!" The detective scrambles off of the sofa and inspects John, no doubt deducing. Like an animal hunting for prey, Sherlock walks around John, looking up and down, scanning for… Something. "You were at your sister's." Sherlock notes, still walking around him.

"Good to see you too, Sherlock." John replies sarcastically, then waves his friend away and finds his way to the sofa. He sits down, throwing his bloody crutches to the ground and wraps himself up using Mrs Hudson's afghan that for some reason is in their flat.

"Why did you leave?"

"Harry's, or from here?"

"Both."

"Sherlock, by now you should know that I appreciate my personal items _staying personal_. And after we had people coming in and out of our flat, I just needed some peace and quiet.

"I can do quiet," Sherlock counters, glancing toward his skull as if he was talking to it.

John, in turn, just snorts at that and says, "No, Sherlock, you really can't. Which I'm usually fine with."

Huffing, Sherlock changes the subject and says, "Why aren't you wearing your jumper? It's less than two degrees."

"It got dirty." John says, too quickly for his liking. Trying to subtly look at his flatmate, he sees that Sherlock isn't convinced, but he doesn't say anything about it. "Speaking of which," John starts, not wanting his flatmate to deduce anything more, "I'm going to go clean off." With that he picks up his crutches and heads to the bathroom, dreading bathing with multiple injured limbs.

Carefully taking off his knee brace, which he's really not supposed to be doing, John sets it to the side along with his sling. He then rinses his jumper in the water as best as he can, because bloody shirts really are quite suspicious. And then after that, he finally takes a bath. He'd much prefer a shower, but at the moment it's not really an option.

When he finishes drying himself off, he carefully hides Harry's lighter and his pocket knife before putting his knee brace and sling back on. Going back out to the sitting room he doesn't see Sherlock anywhere, so he pulls himself up on the sofa with just his trousers and undershirt on, and leaves his old clothes to the side of it. He pulls up the Afghan to his chin, and within minutes is sleeping.

After making sure his flatmate is really indeed sleeping, Sherlock slinks out to the kitchen to check bits of his experiment and then sends a text to his brother.

 **As much as it appals me to say this, thank you for getting John home. -SH**

 **You need to be taking better care of him, Sherlock. -MH**

 **He's not a pet -SH**

 **And yet you still treat him like one. I'm surprised you didn't put any 'lost' posters up around the city. -MH**

Sherlock ignores and deletes the last text sent by Mycroft, then carelessly throws his mobile on the table. He then goes into his room and grabs his duvet to give to his flatmate, but coming back he stops short when he sees his flatmate standing up, somehow without his crutches, holding a gun. Pointing right at him.

"John?" Sherlock questions, dropping the duvet and holding up his hands in surrender.

"No, get away from me!" John replies, his hand shaking a bit, and his jaw clenching.

"Okay. I will leave. Nice and slow. See? I'm leaving now." Sherlock says, glancing up to the 'hidden' camera, which - thank God - is on at the moment. The detective takes a few steps backwards, but still faces his flatmate. And the as soon as John lowers his gun a bit, he takes a few large strides forwards and wrestles the gun from his grasp.

He pushes John down onto the couch weary of his injuries, which will definitely make people talk seeing as how John is only wearing an undershirt.

The good doctor struggles a bit, before he stares at Sherlock in what can only be called shock. "Sh-Sherlock?"

"Yes, yes! It is me, you are fine."

"No… You can't be here." John says, eyes squinting as if he doesn't believe what he sees.

"No, John, look around. You're at the flat, it's all good now, see? You're not… Back there." Sherlock doesn't know exactly what John is imagining, but 'back there' seems to cover all grounds at the moment.

To the Consulting Detective's relief, John does look around, causing him to collapse into the sofa. "Oh Christ…" He mutters, closing his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock asks, still on edge.

"Fine, just fine. Give me a minute." Sherlock nods, then awkwardly stands to the side of his flatmate not knowing what else to do.

Eventually John leans to the side, and then ends up completely on his side. He takes one of the pillows and puts it under his head, and before long he's sleeping. Sherlock picks up the discarded afghan and sets it lightly on John, careful to not wake him up.

Glancing up at the still camera which is still on, Sherlock sends a quick text to his brother, as much as he loathes to do so.

 **Don't send anyone. I know what to do now. -SH**

 **Sherlock, I can not risk that. -MH**

 **Too bad. Do not send anyone, John may leave again -SH**

 **Doctor Whitley will be arriving at 221B in three hours, 8.15, no negotiations. -MH**

Knowing that nothing is going to change his brother's mind, Sherlock groans and throws his phone down.

Looking at John he mutters, "When did this happen?"

 **A/N You should like, really, like, totally, like, review... *cheeky smile with crooked teeth***


	6. I'm Perfectly Fine

**A/N Welcome back to another chapter, albeit slightly shorter than the others. Due to the reviews and responses (or lack thereof) I will be updating this story less and will be working on my original more- But fear not! I am still working on this story!**

 **Thank you JohnLockSher for thinking of the nightmare! xo**

 **Also- Starcross123: to answer your question, close, but no cigar. Sherlock was merely commenting on John's mental state.**

 **~Jules**

 _ **WARNINGS: Self-Harm**_

 **oOoOo**

Sherlock could pinpoint the exact moment that John's nightmare began, but not when it ended.

After about thirty-five minutes of calm silence, Sherlock noticed that John's eyes began to move underneath his eyelids, indicating that he was in a dream. It didn't take long before Sherlock realized that it was a nightmare.

The movement of his eyes began to increase, and a line of perspiration formed over his brow. The doctor's fingers twitched a bit, as if he was trying to grab something in his dream. About a minute later John flinched a couple of times, and then began to mumble. Sherlock could've sworn that his flatmate was saying his name, but then he began to believe that he was just imagining it. Even through the mumbles, it sounded panicked to the detective.

He considered waking his friend, though he eventually decided that John should get as much rest as he possibly can before Melanie comes. Even if said sleep is mostly spent in a state of distress.

Thirty minutes pass until Sherlock grabs the discarded duvet from the ground and sits on the edge of the sofa, John's feet closest to him. He has no desire to sleep, but being warm really can't hurt anybody, right? Sherlock then tucks his feet under him and dissolves into his 'mind palace' stance.

He goes to the room dedicated to John in his mind, and takes a minute to organize things. There is now two separate places for his flatmate's PTSD: one for Afghanistan related memories, and the other for his newly founded Brenton Walker related memories. He has a place for his flatmate's dreams, and now a place for his episodes.

Frowning, Sherlock realizes something. Which is the overwhelming amount of emotions in John's room. Everywhere else is just facts. But no, he feels emotions in this particular segment of the palace. In an attempt to cancel out all of the sad and frightening things in the room, Sherlock places a picture of John, happy and wearing his favourite cream colored jumper.

It isn't until after he's placed the painting that he comes out of his mind.

 **The same exact time, but this time in John's mind oOOoOooOooo**

John sees the dreaded sand and dust of the Afghanistan deserts, and immediately ducks down for cover. When he looks back up, there are four of his old army mates and Sherlock all being held as hostages.

"Pick one." One of the men say, John isn't sure which, none of them seemed to have moved their mouths.

"What? No!" John says back, to no one in particular. The sky seems to be swirling around him, which doesn't make sense. Nothing here makes sense.

Wordlessly one of his mates falls to the ground, blood pooling around him, even though no one fired a shot. _What the hell?_

"Pick one." The same voice as before says, still coming from no one.

"No!" John shouts out again, which causes another one of his army mates to fall to the ground, covered in blood.

"Pick one." The demand comes again, and John waits a long time before saying,

"Save Sherlock." Causing all of his friends to break free from their holds, as well as the dead ones to stand up and march over to John in disgust.

Words like "traitor", "snitch" and "treasonist" come from the mouths of his friends, and John can't help but listen.

"No!" John shouts back at them, determined to make them understand. "That's not what I wanted! I didn't want to pick anyone!"

He gets the calm reply of "You killed Murray."

"No," John mutters, voluntarily sinking toward the ground, trying not to think about that.

But when he opens his eyes again he's in a dark room, next to Sherlock, who is laying down. Someone pushes him down, and puts a cloth over his face. He knows what's coming next.

Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Sherlock thrashing about, turning his head from side to side, trying to get the cloth off of his face. The only difference is that Sherlock's cloth is completely soaked.

"No!" John shouts through his own cloth, "Stop! Sherlock! Sherlock!" He continues shouting until water begins to pour onto his face.

Minutes and minutes pass until it finally stops, but only for a few seconds. It starts up again, but not before John tilts his head to the side and sees his flatmate.

Sherlock's eyes are wide open in pain, begging him to do something. His eyes plead for the doctor to save him, which John would love to do, if an explosion didn't just go off.

John dies from the explosion.

 **Back to Sherlock's POV**

When he looks at John he realizes that he's no longer twitching, clenching his fists, or showing any other signs of a nightmare.

Sherlock smiles at that, then glances at the clock, 7.34. He must've been in his mind palace longer than anticipated. He throws the duvet off and carefully gets off the sofa as to not wake his dozing flatmate. He then decides to make tea. Yes, John would like that.

Twenty minutes, one broken mug, three dirty mugs, a litre of water on the floor, and two discarded tea bags later, the world's only Consulting Detective finally makes an edible cup of tea. Happily trotting to his still sleeping flatmate, Sherlock looks around the flat, and for the first time ever, realizes how much of a mess it really is.

Stains, broken fragments of...something, old experiments, discarded papers, and more all litter the ground, almost completely hiding the floor underneath. Perhaps one day he'll work up the energy and clean it up. That day, is not today.

The detective then sets the cup on the small table next to the sofa and lightly nudges his flatmate. "John? John," Sherlock says, trying not to do anything too loud or drastic so he doesn't scare his flatmate.

When John's eyes open, he instinctively flinches away from the man in front of him and holds up his arms to protect any threat, before he realizes that it's just Sherlock. "Sherl?" He groggily asks.

"Yes yes, don't be dull - we've already established that 'Sherlock' is my name." he pauses to pick up the mug before saying, "I made tea."

"Is the kitchen burned down?" John asks with a smile, though in all seriousness his is somewhat concerned.

"No. But it did take five tries to make this," Sherlock says, helping John sit up before giving him the mug. "There's also pieces of a broken mug on the kitchen floor."

"Jesus Sherlock! How do you take five tries to make a cup of tea?" John asks in disbelief, choosing to ignore the broken mug for the time being.

"Er…" Sherlock really doesn't know how to answer that question.

"You know what? Nevermind. I don't think I want to know." John says, the friendly chat turning his thoughts away from his nightmare. He finally takes a hesitant sip of tea, a bit scared that one of Sherlock's experiments got in it.

"Well?" Sherlock asks, rocking on the balls of his feet, eager and a tad nervous on how his first cpu of tea is.

With a smile John says, "It's really not that great. But it's quite edible, and as far as I'm concerned, and hasn't poisoned me - yet -" he glances up at his flatmate with a look that says, 'I swear to God Sherlock if this poisoned I will personally kick your arse to Hell' before continuing, "So I'll say six out of ten."

Watson finishes his cup and tea and asks, "What time is it?'

"About eight."

"About? You never say about." John points out, giving his flatmate a look. "In all of the time that I've been with you, you've never once said 'about'. It's always the exact number or exact quantity or something."

"Oh," Sherlock says sheepishly, "I just assumed that you'd like a rounded number, as opposed to the exact number. Lestrade and Donovan certainly agree that estimations work better, which is worrying, seeing as how their work revolves around exact measurements…"

John gives a short snort and says, "It's fine Sherlock, really. Just curious." There's a pregnant pause before he continues, "Why'd you wake me up? Please don't tell me it was just so I could taste your tea."

"Melanie Whitley is coming at 8.15. Just wanted to let you know. Figured that you'd rather be awake than sleeping when she comes."

"8.15? Christ, I've got to change," John mutters, then grabs his crutches and is about to maneuver the staircase until, "You called her?" A hint of betrayal echos in his statement.

"No," Sherlock replies defensively. "Mycroft did."

The doctor scrunches his face up in confusion and asks, "Why on Earth would Mycroft send her?"

 _Right. John can't remember his episodes._ "I have no idea why my brother does anything." Sherlock covers, which isn't really a lie.

John looks unconvinced, but due to the time constraint accepts the answer and trudges upstairs to his room, the knife in his pocket burning a hole through his trousers in order to get noticed.

Once he's up to his room he sets his crutches on his unused bed and lays on his stomach, the only way he can look under his bed at the moment. He then pulls out the little grey box and stows away his new pocket knife and the stolen lighter. He takes another second to count out the amount of plasters left in his box - six - and then takes out a few to recover his new wounds with. He takes a few of the bigger bandages for this time, and then peels off the old ones.

When he finishes up his wounds he does in fact change, trousers and another jumper, then comes back downstairs, where Sherlock is attempting use minimal amounts of the kitchen roll to mop of the mess of water and tea on the floor.

John sits down on the table, itching for another cup of tea (maybe this time one that isn't made by Sherlock) when Melanie knocks on the door. John invites her in, then shoos Sherlock out.

"How have you been, John?" Melanie asks, strikingly similar to how Ella would start.

"Fine." And just like Ella, the monosyllabic response elicits a silent groan from his therapist.

"Please be honest with me John, how have you been feeling?"

"Really quite fine. A bit tired, but I suppose I'm still catching up on sleep."

Right to the point, Melanie asks, "Have you noticed any missing spots in the day?"

"What do you mean?" John asks, his stomach doing a flop from anxiety.

"Parts that you can't remember, time skips going by?" Melanie tries again, leaning forward a bit on her chair.

"No. Why?" John asks, anxiety increasing by the second.

"John, you were suspicious at the hospital about how Sherlock was reacting, and there's a reason for that." She pauses, making sure that her patient doesn't have anything to say about this. "There's been PTSD related triggers that cause you to react as if you were still in a threatening position."

John stares at her and squints his eyes a bit, trying to take in the information.

She continues, capping her pen and setting it down on the table. "As far as we know, it's only happened twice: once when you woke up at the hospital the first time, and the other today a few hours earlier."

"What?!" John exclaims, not even almost remembering something like this. "When?"

"Around five. You pointed a gun at Sherlock, convinced that he was an enemy. You were awfully tired, so Sherlock brought you back down rather fast."

The blogger stares at his therapist blankly, not sure of what to say.

"Do you know what triggers these?"

With a scoff John replies, "I didn't even know that 'these things' happened, how the hell am I supposed to know what triggers it?"

Melanie just sighs and thinks to herself of how long this appointment is going to be.

…

By the end of the hour, John is thoroughly pissed, and Melanie is a bit tired at the curt responses.

"John," She starts with her sweet voice, "I think that it'd be better if you didn't stay at your flat for the time being."

The ex soldier snorts at that and says, "Absolutely not."

With a sigh Melanie says, "Please, hear me out. I'm not talking about psychiatric wards or anything, but something here has obviously triggered an emotional response to a memory. Mr Holmes has talked to me about using his home as a _temporary_ living space."

 _And yet another punch is going to go towards Mycroft,_ John thinks. "My answer hasn't changed, absolutely not."

"John-"

"No! I'm not a bloody child, I don't need to be chaperoned everywhere I go!" John spits out at his therapist, determined to make her understand.

"John," She holds up a hand when he opens his mouth to interrupt again, "You've been experiencing episodes that you have no control over. Said episodes can result in potential harm towards yourself or others,"

"Listen, I appreciate the concern- really, I do. But right now I just need to get back into the groove of things. It's only been a few days, and I've already improved," The itch and pain on his stomach begs to differ. "So just let me adjust back into how life was."

After a painstakingly large pause Melanie nods and silently collects her notebook and clipboard. "John, I do have to tell Myc- er, Mr Holmes about this,"

"Bloody great." John mutters to no one.

"Just wanted to let you know," Melanie says quietly, because if she was being perfectly honest, she's a bit scared of the soldier. "I'll tell him that you feel strongly about staying in Baker Street, and that you do not wish to move."

"Thanks." Just says, then leads her out of the flat.

When the door closes John rubs a hand over his face and through his hair, wondering how life got like this, and thinking about the amount of times he's going to punch Mycroft one day.

Checking his watch (9.18), John goes up to his bedroom knowing that Sherlock won't be back until nine thirty. He does the same routine of laying on his stomach to get out the little grey box, then stands back up and sits on the bed.

Without thinking about the possible consequences John opens the pocket knife and drags it across the side of his stomach where the skin hasn't been recently cut. The good doctor hisses a bit when blood runs down his torso, but still grins with morbid satisfaction. He makes a few other cuts along his right side, then wipes it off and puts it back inside of the box.

Pulling out a couple bandages, he knows that he'll have to get some more sometime soon. Now he only has one left, and if he starts taking them from the med kit inside of the downstairs loo, Sherlock would realize.

He then cleans up his wounds and places the bandages on them, effectively cutting of the blood from staining his jumper.

By the time Sherlock gets home, John is casually sitting at the table with a cup of tea (much tastier than Sherlock's…) and reading the paper as best as he could with only one working arm.

 **oOoOo**

 **There's that wonderful button down below called 'review' that lets me know that you're still enjoying the story, even if you only write two words!**


	7. An Invitation

**A/N Hey guys I'm really sorry for the super short chapter, but I'm going on vacation in *checks watch* a few hours, and I still have quite a few things to get done before I go... So yeah... I'd just like to say thanks to everyone who's reading it, I'm glad that you're taking time to do so! As always, a special thanks to JohnLockSher for making these past days livable xox**

 **~Jules**

 **Warnings: Mycroft is a horrible human bean**

To no one's surprise, the elder Holmes came over to Baker Street. He came and sat down at the table as if he lived there, setting his umbrella down above the discarded experiment and began reading the paper that John had set down a few hours earlier.

When Mrs Hudson came down to give her boys 'leftover' biscuits she gave the British Government a stern glare before turning sharply and going back to her flat. That is, until Mycroft called upon her.

"Martha Hudson, if I may speak to you."

"Oh, are you terrorizing my boys again?" She asks, probably the one person who is not afraid of the politician.

"I have never 'terrorized' my brother and flatmate, but this is regarding them." Mrs Hudson gives a look, but doesn't say anything. "John and my brother will not be living here for a few weeks-"

"Oh! You can't take them away!" She says with a gasp. "What have they done this time?"

"Nothing really, but they do both need to heal at the moment, and due to the break in yesterday, Baker Street is not the most secure place to be."

With a sad smile Mrs Hudson notes, "They haven't even told me yet," But then she sees the little shift that Mycroft makes, and Mrs Hudson has enough children and grandchildren to know what that means. "Oh you! You can't just take them away without them knowing! Poor John, he's just a fright right now. He keeps too much weight on his shoulders, you know?" She shakes her head and clicks her tongue before leaving the flat, setting the biscuits down on the counter.

Thirty minutes later, when John and Sherlock both arrive back at the flat, they stop short at seeing Mycroft sitting at their table, drinking tea from a mug that John swears he's never owned.

"Brother dear," Mycroft notes, but otherwise keeping his attention to his tea.

"Imbecile," Sherlock says back, without missing a beat.

With a sigh Mycroft turns to his brother and says, "By now you should know that being rude to a government official is not a good idea."

Sherlock opens his mouth to disagree, but John talks first, in an effort to dissipate a fight that could cause the nation to collapse. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"Good to see you to, Doctor Watson. I am here to invite you to my personal residence."

"And by 'invite' you mean…?"

"I have many ways to get you to leave Baker Street. Many of them involving drugs and unconsciousness. I would've thought that inviting you is better than the alternative."

Sherlock ignores the threat, picks up his violin and says, "We both decline. Leave now, or I'll shoot you with John's browning."

"Oi!" John says, glaring at Sherlock, who, in turn begins to play the violin, effectively tuning out the rest of the room and the people in it.

With a sigh Mycroft turns to the doctor, and says, "John, I know that you declined Melanie when she recommended this, but I'm afraid that I'm going to insist. You mental stability is… How shall I phrase this… Not the most outstanding at the moment. You pointed a gun at my brother earlier," He nods to Sherlock who's back is turned, and who is also playing violin, "Which simply can not go on."

"Does everyone know about that?"

Mycroft holds up a hand to silence the good doctor.

"You will have your belongings packed up by the evening, and I will send a car to pick you up. You will be away from Baker Street one way or another, I do hope you chose this option."

"What the bloody hell, Mycroft!" You can't just uproot my life like this!"

"Yes in fact, I can. And I am." Then with a nod he says, "Good day" And heads straight out the door without another glance.

Growling John says, "Sherlock," but his flatmate either doesn't hear him or doesn't care, because he keeps playing his bloody violin. "Sherlock!" John says louder, and this time he knows that Sherlock just doesn't care.

The ex soldier really doesn't have anytime for this, so he stomps up the stairs (not really though, he's on crutches, but he stomps as much as he can) and grabs his few belongings.

John pulls out his old army duffle and throws a few jumpers, a few trousers, a few pants, and most importantly, his grey box in. He curses a bit when he remembers that he only has one plaster left, and throws his duffel using his left arm, back on his bed.

He goes downstairs and says, "Going out, Sherlock!", even though he knows that his flatmate isn't listening.

He then heads out and grabs a cab to Tesco's, wondering how much more of this he can take.

…

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock listens to everything that his flatmate says, very intently as well. So as soon as his dear Watson leaves, he sets down his violin and texts his brother.

 **I am not going -SH**

 **Don't be smart, Sherlock. -MH**

 **You are not taking John either -SH**

 **John is not mentally suitable for civilian life. -MH**

 **We are not leaving Baker Street -SH**

 **You do not have a choice in the matter. If you refuse to go, I'll put a series of killings on you, and you will go to prison instead. -MH**

Sherlock stops texting his brother at this, and instead texts Lestrade:

 **Be prepared for evidence leading to me -SH**

 **Sherlock, we talked about vague texts**

 **My brother is going to frame many murders on me -SH**

 **What did you to provoke him?**

 **He's taking John away -SH**

 **What!**

 **Why?**

 **Mental state. He's also taking me. If I "refuse" then he'll send me to prison, do keep up. I will reiterate: be prepared for evidence leading toward me -SH**

Sitting behind his desk, Lestrade groans and runs a hand through his silvery hair.

"Sir?" When he looks up he sees Donovan looking at him, with a face of worry and pity mixed in.

With a long suffering sigh, Lestrade says, "Sherlock's being pinned as a mass murderer, and John's being forced to leave Baker Street."

Donovan opens and closes her mouth like fish, trying to figure out how to respond to that. She eventually just turns around and leaves, searching for another not-so-well deserved cup of tea.

…

After getting a pack of twenty-four plasters, John heads back to Baker Street, cursing at the current situation. On the cab ride over he stashes the plasters in the pockets of his trousers and coat, hoping that Sherlock won't notice.

When he gets back, Sherlock is huddled in a ball on the sofa, phone in hand.

"From a medical standpoint, I can tell you right now that holding a phone that close to your eyes can ruin your retinas." John says, sitting down at the kitchen table, stretching his good leg out and setting his crutches to the side.

Sherlock turns over so he's facing John and says, "I don't need a medical degree to tell you that you should be wearing your sling."

"I can't get around on my crutches with it on," John states plainly, in no mood to talk about his numerous injuries. "Have you packed?" John asks, leaning his head on his good hand which is resting on the table, wanting sleep more than he'd like to admit.

"No," Sherlock starts, carelessly throwing his phone on the floor, and pulling the duvet over his shoulders. "Mycroft will get my things when he realizes that I haven't brought anything. He's not going to let me roam around his house wearing trousers weeks old without a wash."

"Right then, is that your way of winning an argument with him? Because I've got to say, he's already won. He's making us move, because of me. Sorry about that, by the way."

Sherlock waves his flatmate off and says, "John, I've never been so good with emotions, but I detest you when you indecently blame yourself for something that isn't your fault."

John just rolls his eyes and mutters a "why do I try" before completely resting his head on the table.

"You're tired." Sherlock points out, cocking his head to the side probably deducing his flatmate.

"Absolutely brilliant deduction, Sherlock," John says sarcastically, with a tired sigh that morphs into a yawn. "I don't know what I'd do without your _brilliant_ mind."

"As I've learned over the years," Sherlock pauses to sit up from the sofa, the duvet sliding off him, "Sleep usually cures being tired."

John makes a short snort and says, "Thanks for that Sherlock. Brilliant as ever."

"John, go sleep." Sherlock says outright, awkwardly standing up and making hand movements toward the sofa.

The good doctor opens his mouth to disagree, but really, sleep sounds wonderful right about now. He begrudgingly nods and pulls himself over the sofa, letting his crutches rest against the coffee table.

His injured leg falls off to the side, but the rest of his short frame fits on the sofa. Sherlock lightly sets the duvet on his flatmate then stands there, not sure of what to do. To his surprise (and slight concern) John starts chuckling a bit.

"What?" He immediately asks, panic rising, "What did I do wrong?"

"Oh, nothing. Just I've never seen you so helpful." Sherlock narrows his eyes, searching through his mind palace, trying to find a time where he was helpful in order to disprove his flatmate. He really does have to win any argument or doubt against him. Including the incident when he was six and his mummy swore that Sherlock had never eaten an entire plate of food.

"I've been solving cases for Lestrade since I was twenty. That's helpful the the group of imbeciles that call themselves Scotland Yard." Sherlock shoots back, a smug look on his face.

John smiles and is about to comment about how the Yard was able to deal with the detective for all of this time, when he remembers the hospital. "What did happen when you were twenty at the hospital?"

"What?" Sherlock asks, even though he knows exactly what his flatmate is asking.

"Nuh uh uh, don't say that. You know exactly what I'm talking about," _Damn_ "You have an eidetic memory, no cheating your way out of this one." Turning his head on the sofa so he can totally see his flatmate he adds, "Just tell me Sherlock, we've got a few hours to kill before Mycroft comes and formally kidnaps us."

"Is this your way of avoiding sleep?" Sherlock asks with a smirk.

"See, we both have things that he'd like to ignore. Now, story." The soldier demands, refusing to let himself fall asleep until he hears about this.

Taking a big breath Sherlock says, "WhenIwastwnetyIOD'dagainandIrefusedtotalkwiththestaffsotheyfoundMycroft'snumberonmyphoneandcalledhimsoasagovernmentofficalhegotmeoutofthehospitalwithoutmehavingtosayasinglewordtoanyonewhoworkedthere."

"Okay, again, but much, much slower." John says, only able to place a few words, those being "when" "OD'd" "Mycroft" "hospital" and "there".

"When I was twenty I OD'd again, but when I woke up I refused to talk with any of the staff. So they went through my phone and contacted my idiot brother. So he then came and convinced the doctors to let me discharge, probably from blackmail. But the point is is that I didn't have to say a single thing to anyone who worked there."

Without a second passing John asks, "OD'd _again_?"

"Well yes, I really did need my brain to stop yelling at me back then." Was the plain response. "There, that's my end of the bargain. Now you have to sleep."

Trying to stifle his yawn (which was definitely not helping his case) John says, "I still have more questions."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"I didn't realize we made a deal."

With a scoff Sherlock says, "Please, it was obvious. We were both avoiding to do something, you: sleeping, me: reliving a part of my life via storytelling. I have 'told my story', so now it's your time to sleep."

 _There really is no point of arguing with him is there?_ "With a scowl on his face the older man finally agrees and says, "Fine."

John falls asleep quickly, the last thing he sees being his flatmate's smug face, screaming that he's won this round.

 **A/N Reviews make me smile like an idiot, even when I look at them in public, so if you'd like to start a line of contagious smiles, please do review! No seriously, they make my day 2000 times better**


	8. Think, Thunk, Thought

**A/N Hey guys sorry for the late chapter (again...), but as you know I was on vacation, and then I had to go back to and do chair auditions for the symphony, which I was freaking out about (but I actually did pretty good :) ). And because I was super stressed, I let myself indulge in my compulsions, so this chapter has an absolutely ridiculous amount of things in twos and couples and twenties, and things like that.**

 **This chapter is dedicated to JohnLockSher**

 **WARNINGS: Self Harm**

Mycroft Holmes' - well, home - was anticipated to be a nice and expensive home.

The reality was much _much_ closer to a mansion. Even more than that though, it was a mansion that seems unrealistically gorgeous. Everything in it is in perfect order, and everything is in nice neat spots, and everything John absolutely appalls.

After spending years in Afghanistan, then years living with Sherlock, John was _not_ used to this level of cleanliness. It just didn't seem right to him.

Since Sherlock got into the car, a permanent scowl has been etched onto his face, and getting to the mansion has not helped it one bit. After arriving the first thing the detective did was rearrange a few of his brother's possessions, making the doctor feel a bit better.

Ten minutes after John had soaked up as much as he could about this house, he found one of the (of what seems like millions) rooms and placed himself in it. And he sat there. Sat there on the bed, staring at a small bug finding it's way across the floor, seemingly oblivious to anything else in the room.

A part of John wants to be that bug, it's only goal to get to the other side of the room. Such a menial life, and a rather pointless one. If someone smashed it, no one would care. No one would notice either.

The doctor shakes his head in an attempt to physically dissolve the thoughts, which doesn't really work. Logically he knows that he should go back out into the main part of the house, where Sherlock is undoubtedly ruining the elder Holmes' possessions, but he doesn't want to at the moment. In fact, he doesn't want to do much at the moment.

Even sleeping seems like too much work. All he wants to do is sit there on the bed, and stare at the bug - wait, he's already disappeared under the door. With a sigh John continues to stare at the floor, even though his back is now aching from sitting hunched over.

Sometime later, probably around twenty minutes, John really doesn't know how long, Sherlock comes to the door and asks, "Alright, John?"

"Just fine, Sherlock," John mutters back, without even turning to face the door.

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Do you need pain medication?"

"No."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"..."

"..."

"Do you want to punch my brother?"

The attempt at humour finally gets to the older man, and with a short smile John says, "Yes, but I'd rather not go to jail," And then before Sherlock can say another word he adds, "I think I'm going to sleep. Still a bit tired from last night."

"Are you sure?" His flatmate questions.

"Yes." John then hears the footsteps fade away from the hallway, leaving him just as he was two minutes ago.

Absent mindedly he walks to the switch and turns off the light, but still makes no move to sleep.

He knows that he should unpack his duffle, since he's most likely going to be here for quite some time.

He knows that he should maybe go out and eat something, for he hasn't eaten in awhile.

He knows that he should do anything but sit here.

But the _reality_ is John Watson sitting in a dark room, blades within reach, for a couple _hours._ It's a bit not good. It's also almost exactly like how life was between Afghanistan and Sherlock.

Another two hours pass until John finally leans back on the bed, letting his eyes drift close into a fitful sleep.

…

When he wakes up, the first thing he realizes is how cold it is. Becoming more aware of his surroundings, he knows what this is from: the fact that he just fell asleep in his clothes, without climbing under any of the covers of the bed.

Speaking of which, he's still wearing yesterday's clothes. Assuming that it is 'tomorrow'.

There's a clock on the bedside table, and when John glances over at it, the time displayed is 00.02. So yes, it is tomorrow, but just barely.

The ex soldier groans and swings his feet out of the bed, reaching for his grey box. He needs something to focus on at the moment.

Silently he pulls out the new pocket knife, and takes off his shirt. With an alarmingly calm sigh, he drags the blade across his stomach once, twice. He pulls back for a moment admiring the lovely red liquid slowly falling down his mid section.

He repeats the process many times, sometimes pausing to look at his work.

It's really quite nice, seeing rivers of red run down his skin. The branches of the rivers slowly connecting to make one solid flow, reaching down, staining the hem of his trousers.

After he's finished he wipes the blade on his skin, semi cleaning it off, and sets it back into the box. He waits for a moment, until gingerly touching his stomach. Sure, the cuts themselves sting quite a bit, but all John's focusing on is the blood.

It's awfully slippery, something that many people don't know of. It's almost like soap, except it stains instead of cleans.

John lets out another sigh before letting his hand fall back onto the bed, but on top of his discarded shirt so he doesn't get blood on the duvet.

He eventually gets up and goes to the connected bathroom, and takes off the rest of his clothes before stepping into the shower. With slow, almost ill movements, John goes to turn on the shower, and lets himself get lost in the warm spray. He doesn't bother cleaning himself off (though he really needs to), instead he just watches the blood run down his body, not bothering to do anything else. Even after he stops bleeding, the water still stings his cuts, leaving John with more needed pain.

After twenty minutes, John gets out of the shower and dries himself off, careful to not get any excess blood on the pristine towel. He then goes to his duffle and puts on new pants and trousers, then turns to the grey box. He grabs two bandages and wraps them around his waist, making sure that it covers up all of his new cuts.

Then, disgusted with himself he closes and tucks the grey box in the bottom of his duffle and sits back on the bed.

He sits there, lost in his thoughts until a couple hours later when Sherlock pulls him out.

A loud bang was heard across the mansion, one that could only be described as a Sherlockian bang.

After living with the so called sociopath for quite some time, John knows that the best time for experiments are in the early morning. Very early morning.

The good doctor pulls a jumper over his head, hissing a bit when it causes the bandages to rub against the new cuts, and then goes out into Mycroft's enigmatic house, attempting to find the kitchen where the detective is undoubtedly performing an experiment.

After a couple minutes of searching, John finds the heart of the experiment, which is in fact in the kitchen. "Sherlock," His sleep deprived voice mutters, "You have got to be bloody kidding me,"

Obviously startled by the other man, Sherlock turns around to find his flatmate standing with his crutches looking rather disappointed. "Yes?"

If John could've thrown up his hands, he would've. But instead he has to settle for, "Jesus, Sherlock! Now is not the time to do experiments. Also, why is there smoke in the kitchen?"

Ignoring the second question, Sherlock states, "Two in the morning is a great time to do experiments, John!"

"No, no, it's really not," John says, shaking his head, but all he's really thinking about is how it's already two. That means that he was in his head for around two hours. Ridiculous, even by his standards.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at his flatmate and turns, presumably to continue the experiment, before John asks again, "Smoke, Sherlock? What is the smoke from?"

"Even though I am exceedingly good at deducing, I would've assumed that you could deduce something so simple."

"I meant _what experiment_. I know that it's from the experiment!"

"Lesser minds would not understand the experiment, John." Was Sherlock's curt reply, oblivious at the fact that he hurt his flatmate.

"Bloody wonderful," John murmurs under his breath, and then turns back. Although after he takes a couple steps, he turns his head and asks, "How long are we sentenced to stay here?"

"Ask my idiot brother!" Sherlock shouts over the smoke alarm, which has _finally_ gone off.

John groans at the response and the smoke alarm and goes back to the other side of the house (but not before he went through some sort of library, he could've sworn that there was no library the first time), needing some peace and quiet.

He'd love to sleep, but at the moment, it's not exactly an option for the doctor. What he wants to be doing is, God forbid, running through the streets of London, trying to catch a mass murderer. As much as he quite hates the high speed chases at two in the morning, John loves to feel adrenaline rushing through his veins.

Perhaps he's more of the freak than Sherlock.

What person loves to go gallivanting around London at ghastly hours, with the possibility of death?

But still, John would kill to not have any broken bones, and for a good case to come up. Well, perhaps not kill, but he's reaching that point soon.

When he finally gets back to his room, John carelessly tosses his crutches on the couch, and then sits on the bed.

 _You could escape_.

A bit of his mind knows that Mycroft's guards wouldn't dare harm him anymore if he tried to get out. Sure, he'd be forced to go straight back into the mansion, but really, a taste of freedom sounds wonderful at the moment.

 _You could make it_.

That's true. John could make it if he tried. He stowed away his browning before he left Baker Street, and really could do it. Shoot anyone who got in his way… It'd be possible.

 _It would be possible_.

But not right now. Mycroft knows that John doesn't want to be here. He'll probably have security up for the next couple of days.

 _But you can get out after that_.

And then there's Sherlock, who'd be stuck here, dealing with the repercussions of John's escape.

 _That's alright. You always deal with the repercussions of his work, why can't he deal with yours for a change_.

No, this would be bad. None of this is a good idea.

 _You could get out of this prison. That's all it is anyway. Forced to stay here because of what? Your mental health?_

Frustration builds up in John's mind, and he has the urge to punch someone or something. Besides, he's got a load of punches saved up for a certain British politician **(A/N no seriously, what are we at? Four?)**.

 _You could punch someone and get away with it. You've been in the army for Christ sakes! It's easy. And Mycroft wouldn't dare put you in jail or anything. After all, Sherlock is your flatmate._

This brings up something else though. Where is Mycroft? For this being his property, John hasn't seen him since yesterday, when he barged into their home, demanding that they leave. All he's seen is his sodding PA, Anthea.

 _Who's he to make demands anyway? It's your life._

It is John's life. There's no way that he'll let someone else uproot it, not without consequences anyway.

 _Mycroft had no right to so easily take your life away._

That's right. Mycroft, the sodding man he is, doesn't get to do this. He'll have to pay for this. Someday, John is going to get out of this hell hole and find that man. What's a couple more punches anyway? But... that seems a bit overboard.

 _He definitely deserves it. He took your life and made it his. There's no way that he gets to continue doing that._

That's awfully true. It's John's life, not Mycroft's. The doctor balls his hands up on the sheets, causing his knuckles to turn white. Just sitting here is not going to be helping anything. The medic has to go do something useful for the time being.

And although the little grey box is screaming at him, John has already harmed today, and he can't let himself do that more than once.

 _You haven't burned yet._

All John's done is used the pocket knife. He still has a certain lighter to use.

 _Let yourself harm. Get lost in the incredible feeling._

Without thinking about it twice, John grabs the lighter and begins to burn himself.

It feels different this time though, the voice in his head guiding him through it.

A bit of the dead skin from the last couple of times is still there, and John spends a couple of minutes picking it off. Now his stomach is red with cuts and red with burns, and John can't help but feel proud of himself.

Because after all, John quite deserves it. It's just a plus that it helps him think.

 _You're better like this._

John really is. He's calmer, and since that quite small episode yesterday, he hasn't had any major problems. Perhaps when Melanie notices this she'll give John a break.

 _Melanie is the reason that you're here._

Really Melanie was just doing her job, nothing wrong with that. If she didn't do it then Mycroft would've ruined her life.

 _If she hadn't told Mycroft about your struggling then you'd still be at home. Back with Mrs Hudson._

No, Mycroft still had cameras around the flat, so he still would've noticed. John, now laying on the bed, tries to find a scenario that lets him be at Baker Street.

 _Mycroft is the real monster here. He's forcing you to uproot your life._

John really can't blame him though, he is a danger. Better this than hurting civilians. Or worse, Mrs Hudson or Sherlock.

 _If Mycroft thinks that locking you up in his house is helping, then he's wrong._

Well, the good doctor certainly can't disagree with that.

 _You've just survived a kidnapping! Your mental state is not supposed to be perfect. Mycroft should've given you a chance._

All he got was two days. And half of that was spent at Harry's flat. There's no way in hell that the older Holmes can disrupt his life like this with only two days' worth of evidence.

 _You shouldn't be here._

That's right, the doctor shouldn't.

 _You have to find a way out, you need your freedom. Even if it means hurting people you love._

John needs this. He needs to find a way out of here.

Mycroft is going to have to pay the price.

 **A/N So Starcross123, are you getting ready for that 'something bad' that you've been anticipating...?**

 **Also, please just take a second of your time, and write a review! Even if it's only two words, they really make me smile and remind me that I'm doing something right**


	9. Going Through Many Many Moons

**This is going to be a really long A/N:** As always, hey guys! I decided to do something interesting in this chapter. I tried to challenge myself by not putting any quotation marks. For those who have read my spn story, "Pitch Black", it's a bit like that. The only difference is that this is literally my raw thoughts. This story has been getting rather deep, so I made it a bit silly in this chapter, cracking jokes and what not. Please, please tell me if you liked the way I wrote this chapter, and also feel free to say "Jules, this is the absolute worst chapter I have ever read in my life go back to your other writing style", I just really want some feed back.

Thanks to JohnLockSher who thought of the couch scene!

 **~Jules**

 **oOoOo**

John was having a bad week even before he had, yet another, nightmare.

He spent most of his time staying away from people, in fear that the voice in his head would make him do something irrational. Whenever he had to talk to people the responses were almost all monosyllabic, and nothing of remote interest.

Sessions with Melanie have gotten almost painful for the both of them. Melanie pushes John to talk about the past few days, John refuses to talk about the past few days… It's all a bit not good for the whole lot.

Sherlock, on the other hand, has gotten more friendly. Everyday he tries to coax John into doing something, and everyday John never does anything, but it's the thought that counts, right?

The little grey box has been opened and closed more than ever before, and more than once John wonders how it's going to be when his knife gets too dull, or when he runs out of lighter fluid. He doesn't spend much time away from 'his room', but when he does it's a relief to all of the staff.

Unlike his usual cheery attitude, John hasn't spoken with any of the staff, much to their dismay. Instead he's asked things of Sherlock, and occasionally… Well no, just Sherlock. Three days ago, Mycroft showed up, which was quite strange even though it is his own house. He gave disgruntled looks at everyone, ordered people around and kept sending looks at the famous duo.

John spent most of his will power staying away from Mycroft, in fear that he'd hurt him. The voice in his head is getting awfully strong right about now. Twice he's almost done something. Perhaps it's not the safest that his browning is in reach.

As far as the outside world is concerned, John and Sherlock are not taking cases at the moment, and people are not allowed to go to 221B. Though as much as Sherlock says otherwise, the citizens of London are not dumb. They know that something is up. It's been weeks since anything has been heard of the two.

There's been rumors of death, all the way to rumors of marriage and honeymoon. (John had not appreciated those ones.) The famous blogger has not blogged for quite some time, which has gotten to the point of people actually worrying.

Two days ago, someone, probably a fan, broke their way into Baker Street, determined to get some answers out of the two. Unknowingly, he found himself in a flat with experiments weeks old, and gave an old lady quite a fright.

Now, Mrs Hudson, who had 'helped' a drug cartel in her youth, isn't an idiot. She didn't spend seventy years prancing around. She knows that when there's an intruder, you do something.

One hour later a certain Detective Inspector came to 221 to pick up an unconscious man who had broken into the flat. Mrs Hudson's statement mostly revolved around "Well, I had to do something!"

Said intruder has a concussion from this.

Unfortunately, since the 'fan incident' the rumors have spread even more, if that was possible. They aren't hiding away from the world in their flat, they're hiding somewhere else. The possibility of death skyrocketed after that. The others, who didn't believe that, started Googling how long honeymoons last.

Sure, Mycroft Holmes can deal with killing and kidnapping discretely, waging wars on countries, fail at dieting, but if there's one thing he can't do, it's control the media.

Perhaps it's because he was never - and never will be - a teenage girl, but he can never find a good way to convey people via social media. He can start new rumors, but really, it's up to people to follow them.

What he _can_ do is blackmail celebrities into saying that they believe said rumor, which really speeds up the process. People do love to agree with their favourite millionaires.

But the British Government didn't do that. For the sole reason that he didn't know what to say. For the first time in his life, he didn't know how to convince the media that everything is alright.

And the other thing he's noticed: something's up with John Watson…

It has been one day (not quite, twenty three hours actually) since a certain army doctor took his bag and left Mycroft's property.

To no one's surprise, he was found back at Baker Street, having tea with Mrs Hudson of all things. The only surprising part was how fast the doctor got to his flat on crutches.

When Mycroft's men came to collect him, Mrs Hudson chastised them about taking people unwillingly. She then called up Mr Holmes himself, and gave him a scolding as well.

For an old lady, she is rater terrifying.

Not an hour later, Sherlock Holmes is rumored to be seen going into 221B.

Mrs Hudson is absolutely ecstatic about this, how her boys were back, or something. Sherlock, of course, waves her off, even though he was quite happy to see her.

After all, all the King's horses, and all the King's men came, and couldn't get them to go back to the mansion, so the King himself came, with his posh suit and that sodding umbrella. Mrs Hudson scolded him again, just for good measure, before she refused to be shooed out.

Somehow, our favourite protagonists were able to win the argument. But then again, the strategically placed Chinese embassy meeting probably helped.

They were allowed to return to Baker Street under these conditions:

Melanie would have bi weekly sessions with John

There were to be no experiments that could easily lead to death

John would not return to surgery, even if Sarah called

They would be under constant surveillance

The duo disliked a few rules that applied to them, but together they agreed that the last rule was unacceptable.

Mycroft refused to take the cameras out, so Sherlock did so himself three minutes after Mycroft left.

Really, all was going well, until the voice in John's head told him that he was not a child. He didn't need someone to make rules for him when he stayed home alone. So he point blank refused to follow any of these rules.

Mycroft also refused to take away the rules, so it was a bit of a battle. Unfortunately, the voice in John's head is fabulous at arguing. At this point he would be a good candidate for the debate team back in Uni.

Eventually the politician had to leave, because of the meeting.

So three minutes after he left Sherlock had found all of the cameras (he must be getting slow, three minutes is a rather long time), John had himself situated back in the flat, and Sherlock had called Lestrade for some cases.

Every bit of what they did appalled Mycroft, but it's really okay.

And the reason that it's okay is that in exactly twelve weeks, Mycroft Holmes would be dead.

But, let's not focus on that, right?

The moral of this story, other then that fact that all of Mycroft's men and all of Mycroft's horses could not put John Watson together again, is that John's week was less than stellar.

So when the nightmare came, it was a bit of a turning point for him.

It started when he just didn't want to sleep in the first place. Mrs Hudson had gone out to dinner with Mrs Turner and her married ones (rumor says they're trying to adopt), so it was just the two flatmates.

And John absolutely refused to sleep.

Sherlock obviously knew why, one can't hide nightmares from the World's Only Consulting Detective. He has a whole room in his mind palace devoted for nightmares, for Christ sakes! But see, when one is not suffering, they assume that said suffering is not as bad.

Such as when a friend breaks a bone, and they're wearing this bright orange cast, and everyone's signing it, and you think to yourself, 'Wow, breaking a bone must not be that bad, and then you get attention!', but then you do end up breaking a bone, and it's super painful, and now showering is impossible, and you can't do sports, and-

Anyhow, I digress.

It's been many years since Sherlock has had nightmares, and many years since he's purposefully deleted such information from his mind palace. Falling asleep high is something that he's not eager to do again.

So when he knows that John's nightmares are bad, he still knows that at least his flatmate is still getting rest. The nightmares can't be that bad, right?

But his flatmate is still refusing, so the detective settles for John sleeping on the couch, where he'll be safe, and nothing will happen to him. And the cameras are taken away, so Mycroft won't know anything.

After a few _hours_ of deliberation and refusal, John finally agrees to sleep on the couch. The voice in his head says something about this not being fair, but he ignores it. Well, tries to ignore it.

All wrapped up in the duvet that he's really quite missed, John falls asleep within minutes.

And it only takes fourteen minutes for him to get into REM.

So fourteen minutes until his nightmare begins.

Somehow, he's back at the pool, and Moriarty is announcing himself, meaning that he's still in this _sodding parka_.

The only thing different is the pool. Since when is the water now blood?! Why did he not notice this earlier?

And now Sherlock is being his usual snarky self, even though in the inside he's worried sick about his flatmate.

But this time Moriarty gets bored with the detective and has Moran shoot him.

Well. That's new.

It's a shot in the chest. But not just any boring old shot. Immediately John's medical brain fires off what will happen.

Collapsed lung.

Internal bleeding.

Chest cavity is going to be filled with blood, resulting in death.

My flatmate is going to die.

Wait. _My flatmate is going to die._

Finally, he stops thinking and rushes forward to his newly made best friend, and tries to stop the inevitable: death. Sherlock has already collapsed, the floor getting a nice view of his cheek.

John is screaming out to his flatmate, to start breathing, dammit! Blood dribbles down his chin, like drool on a baby.

The good doctor watches as his friend splutters, trying to say something, but John's telling him to just shut up, he's making it worse.

But then Sherlock finally gets some words out, and he's asking his flatmate to save him, which can not be happening. Even the greatest doctor in the world can't save him. Death is something he can't stop.

Sherlock' still begging him, _begging_ , for John to save him, but it's not helping.

Soon enough, Sherlock's eyes flutter close, even though now John's begging for him to open them. His wonderful ocean blue eyes, which he'll never see again!

He hugs his flatmate, no, the corpse of his flatmate, and he's freely sobbing into the void. Because Sherlock is dead, and John can't handle it.

The good doctor sits, there, crying into the body of the Consulting Detective. Eventually Greg Lestrade comes, and peels John off of his flatmate, trying to calm him down, but it's not working, and now his hands and his jumper, and his everything are all covered in blood, the blood of a dead person, and he really can't deal with this right now, but he doesn't have a choice, and he's going to have to go back to Baker Street, and- oh.

Oh.

It's just a dream. That's why Sherlock, who is very much alive, is shaking his good shoulder so he'll wake up.

He mutters something about being awake, but then shuts up when he realizes that his face is covered with tears.

While trying to discreetly wipe them off, Sherlock is asking him what happened, and what he dreamed, but the doctor is refusing to tell him.

Sherlock's not an idiot though. He can still deduce. His flatmate is looking at his chest, not his eyes, which, may be from embarrassment, but unlikely, if John was embarrassed he'd be looking down not at his chest. Conclusion: nightmare was related to something happening in his chest.

Obvious.

 _Obvious!_

An injury was sustained there. Spear? No. Bullet? Yes.

The detective would love to deduce more, but that's not really an option at the moment, seeing as how his flatmate is still crying. What should he do about that? He's never been good at sentiment.

Now John's yelling that he needs to shut up. But that doesn't make sense, he's not talking. Who needs to be shut up?

When the Consulting Detective looks at the door, Mrs Hudson is standing there - no - now she's walking toward them, talking about her poor boys. Mrs Hudson has always been good with sentiment, he'll let her handle it.

The entire situation is really quite awkward for John, and he really wishes that he wasn't in it. But now he's getting the motherly hug (that he never got as a child) from Mrs Hudson, which is making him feel loads better.

Sherlock is hovering to the side, letting their seventy year old landlady work her magic. Perhaps John's nightmares were more severe than he anticipated. When he looks back at the two, he sees John wincing at the contact from the hug. That doesn't make sense. John never hurt his chest or mid-section.

John murmurs about how he needs to get out, but their dear landlady doesn't let him, no, she's insisting on some late night tea. And Sherlock needs to sit with them. Bugger.

None of the three go back to bed (or in Mrs Hudson's case, back to the flat) for the rest of the night, and they talk about silly little things, which Sherlock finds boring, but it seems to be helping his flatmate, so he continues to do so.

After that nightmare, the others haven't been as severe. And certainly none of them have woken up their landlady.

Things have been slightly better since then. After another two weeks Melanie finally agrees that John doesn't needs his sling any more, but if it hurts him, he sure as Hell better put it back on.

A few days after that Mycroft finally lets Lestrade give Sherlock cases. The DI would've done it earlier if the elder Holmes didn't threaten his life and job.

All seems to be returning to a great order.

Except that John is occasionally seen and heard talking to nothing, but no one pays much mind to it. Most people on Scotland Yard believe that it's a side effect of living with a lunatic.

A few weeks after that John's knee is finally almost back to normal, and he can start physio, even though he absolutely loathes it.

Still, he'd rather do that than be left in the dust in a high speed chase through sketchy alleyways.

Speaking of sketchy alleyways, Lestrade got mugged four days after John started physio. Rather unlucky to try and mug a police officer. Poor guy got an even worse sentence because of the victim's relation to Scotland Yard. Four more days after that the mugger and muggee were right as rain. Except one of them was in prison.

Soon enough John was sleeping in his own room again, the stairs no longer his worst enemy. Eventually Melanie agreed that once weekly appointments would be sufficient, and John was starting to believe that everything was going great.

Except for the fact that he's been coping by cutting and burning daily. Otherwise everything was going marvelously.

To no one's surprise, every time the two flatmates saw Mycroft Holmes, they gave him looks and promptly ignored him. Mrs Hudson on the other hand gave him a good scolding at every opportunity.

A few more weeks passed until Lestrade came over to 221B with a case. The two boys - er, men, (but they act like children) - were sitting around the table, one with tea, the other with a severed toe.

Sherlock was going mad with no cases, and John was, well, pretty much unknowingly going mad. The voice in his head was not going away, and if anything it was getting worse. Of course, Lestrade was like everybody else in the fact that he did not know this.

So the DI came into the flat, which always seems to be unlocked, when he announced a case where the victims were thrown into the Thames, left to drown.

The Consulting Detective dropped his toe, immediately intrigued, and John was needing a good dose of adrenaline, so they took the case.

What they didn't know, was the sheer amount of secrets that would be revealed during this case.

 **A/N** Real sorry, but the post chapter a/n is also going to be long. Basically my schooling starts early this year (this Friday...) so chapters will be more sporadic and probably shorter. I apologise in advance about that. Secondly, there are going to be a few months with very few updates (that I know of so far): September; I'm playing for a few weddings in that month, idk why, I guess September is the month to get married in...? And October because I have a lot of problems with October, it's just sort of a hard month for me.

 **Also for those who are worried about a certain politician, remember how I** **didn't** **warn for character death? Keep that in mind!**


	10. My Reflection

**A/N Hello all! I hope you like this new chapter! I also hope that you guys are enjoying the last bit of your summers (if you still have some)**

 **~Jules**

 **This is dedicated to JohnLockSher, my lovely friend!**

 **oOoOo**

A certain landlady was absolutely ecstatic that things we returning to how they were before the, er, incident, and was quite giddy at the constant banging and violin playing in her flat. But admittedly, after a few weeks of this, it got to be pretty tiring. So when Greg Lestrade came in the flat she immediately guided him to the sitting room, where her boys were sitting at the table.

"John. Sherlock." Lestrade noted, nodding his head respectively at the two.

"Yes, yes, we still have the same names, now, on with the case!" Sherlock immediately answered, unsurprisingly keeping his attention on the bloody toe in his hands.

"How'd you know I came here for a case?"

"Dull! Case, Lestrade, case!"

With an eye roll that made John stifle a laugh Lestrade opened up the folder in his hand and started, "In the past eight days there have been five victims that have no correlation-"

"Everything has a correlation! Just your imbeciles can't tell! Everything! Has! A! Correlation!" Sherlock interrupts, slamming his fist down on the table making Mrs Hudson jump from her position on the side of the room.

With a disapproving look to the Consulting Detective Lestrade says, "I'm just going to continue now," With a hand running through his silvery hair. "These eight people have been found dead in the Thames, with no evidence. At first we thought it was suicide-"

Sherlock scoffs, "Suicide! It's never that! Have you learned nothing!"

John finally sets his tea down and tries to contain his flatmate, "Sherlock, let the man talk, for Christ sakes! You've been wanting an interesting case, and if you don't shut it, you won't be able to hear about it."

The consulting detective scoffs again, sending a glare to his friend, but does indeed shut it. "Anyway, after the third one we knew something was up, but it appears that these people have just been randomly-" The DI holds up a hand so Sherlock doesn't interrupt again, "Just been randomly plucked off the streets."

Before Sherlock can begin his barrage of questions John quickly asks, "Death from drowning or hypothermia?"

"Four of them from drowning, but the man who died yesterday made it to the edge of the Thames before collapsing and then dying."

John makes a noncommittal noise, not happy with the outcome.

Sherlock begins his questioning when the voice in John's head decides to make an appearance.

 _Even you know that these aren't random. They probably had it coming._

John quietly groans and tries to focus on Lestrade and Sherlock's conversation.

"What do you mean, you 'don't know' if she's married! Did she have a ring or not, Lestrade!"

"I don't know these things on the top my head," Lestrade says back, throwing the folder of the case at Sherlock, none too nicely.

"How you acquired a job as a Detective Inspector baffles even me," Sherlock says to him, making Lestrade give a long sigh.

"Just look through the damned case. Don't phone me if you have any questions, I need some time away." Lestrade then goes to the kettle and invites himself for a cup of tea.

 _Most people in the world don't deserve to be saved. Why are you hurting natural selection?_

This could not be happening. A part of his sodding mind is justifying murder? Headache intensifying, John rubs his temples, which gets the attention of the DI.

"Alright, John?"

 _Everyone dies, it's just a matter of time. If you save these people it'll only be extending their life a tiny bit._

"Mm. Just fine." He answers, trying to ignore his brain while Sherlock mutters deductions from the case, leaving his toe on the ground.

"Head?"

 _Don't forget about overpopulation. Murderers help with that as well._

"Yeah," John answers, not even technically lying, standing up from his chair leaving his tea cold and abandoned on the table. "Going to get some paracetamol." He says walking out, automatically finding his way to the pain meds..

But when John gets to the loo he goes to the tub and sits on the end of it, letting his head fall into his hands.

 _Murders are rather helpful in today's populated cities. Perhaps you could even be one. One less person alive means one less person to be fed._

No, this is not helping. John will not become a murderer.

 _Remember Mycroft Holmes?_

Damn his brain! Just because he's astoundingly mad at Mycroft doesn't mean that he's ready to end the politician's life.

 _You were ready to do it back at the mansion._

As much as John tries to forget, he can't. He was ready to kill the most powerful man in England. He's better now though. At least that's what he's been telling himself.

He's good.

He's great.

 _Why not finish what you started. You still have your beloved browning. Been awhile since you've used it…_

No. Damn brain.

 _It's not that hard. You've killed before in Afghanistan. Hell, you've killed in London! You can totally do this._

John balls his fists together and knits his eyebrows, trying to get his brain to shut up. Unfortunately for him, he can't. So he very calmly stands up, faces the mirror, and punches it.

He hisses and draws back his left fist as it's now covered with glass. A few seconds later the blood begins to pool out. Fuck, there's still glass inside of his hand. This is going to be hard to explain.

Lucky for the doctor, the first step of explaining has already been done. "John!" Is heard outside of the loo door, where Lestrade is undoubtedly worried.

The soldier tries to silently clear his throat before muttering, "Fine. Just fine."

He hears a sigh from the other side before Lestrade says, "John, please be honest." The DI's voice sounds defeated, and John can't help but feel guilty at this.

A few drawn out moments pass until John quietly says, "No-" He takes a steadying breath, "Not fine."

It's still loud enough for Lestrade to hear it though, because the next things he says is, "John, please open the door. I can get Mrs Hudson to get the keys, but I'm sure you don't want her worrying. She and Sherlock are out in front of the flat, it's just us.

Besides wondering what the Hell Sherlock's doing outside, John shuffles to the door and begrudgingly opens it.

Lestrade quickly notices his hand and then pulls out his phone. When he sees John's worry, the detective informs him that he's just going to send a quick text to Sherlock in order to get him out of their hair. "I'll tell him to go to Scotland Yard for evidence. He'll have a field day with Donovan and her new boyfriend," Lestrade pauses to see if John smiled at that before continuing, "C'mon now, to the kitchen."

John silently heads off to the kitchen while Lestrade grabs the first aid kit stashed in the loo. Almost reflexively John settles into his chair, sitting into the worn fabric and holds out his hand for Lestrade to inspect.

"Sinks don't make the best punching bags, mate." Lestrade murmurs, pulling out the tweezers from the kit.

Surprising both of them, John replies, "Builds character."

Lestrade snorts a bit at that and then begins to take shards of glass from John's fist, trying to make it as painless as possible. John stays almost perfectly still, only hissing a bit when Lestrade took the biggest part from between his knuckles. "Feel anymore stuck somewhere?"

"You didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did. Now answer the question."

"I'm fine."

"No more glass in your hand?"

"I'm fine."

The DI rolls his eyes and says, "I'll take your word for it, but I'm still wrapping it and if it becomes infected I can assure you that I will personally come over here and knock you down." John smiles a bit and nods at the promise.

Lestrade finishes wrapping John's hand in silence but after he puts away the gauze he stands back up and looks straight at the doctor. "Now you're going to tell me what this is all about."

"Uh, I-I don't- sh-. What?" Was John's elegant response.

 _Smooth._

"Since you came back, or rather escaped, from Sherlock's brother you've been acting all differently. Mrs Hudson's just happy you're back, Sherlock's too self centred to notice, but I can tell that something's up with you. What happened?"

 _I happened._

"Nothing. It's just been a rough few months." John lies easily, awkwardly seeing how much his hand can stretch out in the bandages.

Glancing at his hand Lestrade says, "Don't fiddle with it. And saying that 'it's been a rough few months' isn't anything like you. You've survived years in Afghanistan."

John stares back up at his friend not knowing what to say.

"..."

"..."

Eventually after a few minutes of silence Lestrade speaks. "Is there anything I can do?"

With a short chuckle John says, "Keep Sherlock distracted."

Lestrade narrows his eyes when he realizes why John wants that. "...So he won't deduce?"

"Mm." John answers, fixating his eyes back onto his ever so interesting hand.

"You still okay to be doing this case?"

Quicker than he would've liked, John replies, "Yeah, of course. I just need a minute."

"With some mirrors?" Lestrade says with a smile.

John sends a glare up to the DI but still smiles as well. "I'll be fine in a few. Just need to take a minute and…" He trails off, not really knowing where was going with the statement but hopes that Lestrade understands.

The detective gives a supportive pat to John's good knee and says, "I think Sherlock just got to Scotland Yard, my mobile's been blowing up."

John chuckles a bit and says, "We'd probably have to get going then. Before Sherlock ends up hurting everyone there."

"Or vice versa," Lestrade agrees, giving John and hand up and out of his chair. "Are you sure you'll be fine?"

John nods a bit and says, "In a second. I never did get that paracetamol." He then heads back to the loo and dry swallows a couple of pain meds before riding with Lestrade to his insane flatmate.

When John and Lestrade arrive at New Scotland Yard Sherlock was deducing the new intern, who's in tears.

"Sherlock," John warns, "Don't make fun of her."

Turning around to face his flatmate Sherlock replies, "Oh please John, it's obvious that she doesn't even want this job! It's always been her father's wish to-" He stops mid sentence after seeing John's hand, giving time for the poor girl to run off. "What happened to your hand?"

"I er… Punched the mirror." John says quietly. Donovan, who is not so secretly eavesdropping glances up to give John a look, but then goes back to shuffling papers around her desk.

"Why?" Sherlock asks as if he was genuinely curious. He walks up to his flatmate and takes his hand (people will most definitely talk now) to inspect it.

"The mirror had it coming." John says, smiling a bit in an attempt to distract the people around him. "Where's Mrs Hudson?" John asks, curious as well as eager to change the subject.

Now squinting and still looking at John's hand, the detective mutters, "She went to the cafe down the street… Now, why are you evading the question?"

Pulling his hand away and feeling a tad humiliated John murmurs "I'll answer that somewhere else."

"How about the morgue?" Sherlock asks without missing a beat.

With a smirk Donovan says, "It has been awhile since you two went on a nice date."

The good doctor throws his arms up and says none too quietly, "What will it take for you lot to believe that _I'm not gay_!" he then rubs his hands against his skull, headache still very evident.

Seeing his flatmate's distress Sherlock tries to help by deducing and saying, "Still shagging your neighbour then? He's cheating on you, if you're interested at all."

"Oh you bloody bastard! You-" Donovan starts before Lestrade thankfully intervenes.

"Okay, okay! Not this, not right now. You two," He says pointing to the flatmates, "Go to the morgue to see the bodies from the case, but only if John is feeling up to it. If not, back to Baker Street, I can phone Mrs H.

"Donovan, my office, now. Someone go find the intern and explain to her why there's a man in a trenchcoat that knows her entire life. And someone needs to phone Anderson! He's hours late!"

No one dares to not follow Lestrade's lead, and soon enough Scotland Yard is as right as rain. John and Sherlock decided to see Molly at the morgue after John promised that he was okay.

But when they get into the cab there's a gasp from the front. "Bloody hell! It's my lucky day! You're Sherlock Holmes! And John Watson!" The duo could almost feel the excitement radiating from the cabbie.

"Oh Christ," John murmurs, but only loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

"Everyone's been thinking that you're dead! Glad to see that you're not though! Quite the relief. I mean, there's been rumors that you two have been up and about lately, but for me to be seeing it with my own two eyes- that just…"

"Makes you yet another feeble-minded person?" Sherlock interjects, and for once John doesn't scold him for it.

"...It's incredible!" The cabbie finishes, ignoring the great detective. "Where have you been!" Still not driving or even starting up the cab, he connects the dots in his excuse for a brain. "Wait a minute, if you're not dead, are you two married?"

"Alright now, we're switching cabs." John announces, pulling on the handle to get out until Sherlock puts a hand out to stop him.

Clearing his throat the detective says, "My brother has the power to kill, maim, and kidnap without lifting a finger, and undoubtedly knows that I'm in this cab. Shut up and drive."

The cabbie happily obliges once a threat looms over his head, but still steals sideways glances to the duo whenever he can.

Due to the overeagerness of the cabbie John uses it as another excuse as to not talk about his hand. And in hopes that word doesn't get around in public, he hides it under his jacket for the duration of the ride.

Hiding his hand also gives him the added benefit of Sherlock not seeing the tremor that he can't seem to control.

 **oOoOo**

 **A/N Reviews make me happier than a lion in a cage full of gazelles!**


	11. Questions Now?

**A/N Hey all! Do you need help on your highschool/college math? Do you like kittens? Then you'll love my sister's blog! (Hooray for shameless plugs...) it's calcandkittens dot wordpress dot com**

 **(just replace the dots with actually dots...)**

 **And as always, thank you so much JohnLockSher! I'm hoping for the best for you, my dear friend!**

 **~Jules**

John couldn't believe that this was finally happening.

Sure, he'd been dreaming of it for months, since Mycroft ruined his life, but for it to actually happen?

It's rather poetic, this whole situation. They're where it all began, the warehouse where Mycroft originally kidnapped him, many many moons ago. John didn't like him then, and he certainly doesn't like the politician now.

 _You're finally going to do it._

Yes, John knows. After much deliberation and many arguments from the voice in his head, John was going to go through with it.

Without a tremor from his hand, Captain Watson holds his beloved browning out, barrel pointed directly at Mr Holmes.

His breathing is calm, good for a soldier, even better for a murderer. Mycroft, seemingly aware of his fate simply stands there, leaning on his umbrella like the prick he is.

 _Don't wait up, get it done already!_

If there's one thing the doctor has learned those past few months it's that the voice in his head is not patient.

 _Come on now, pull the trigger._

"He'll forgive you, eventually," Mycroft suddenly says out of the blue.

"Uh, sorry?" John asks leisurely as if he wasn't pointing a gun at the most powerful man in England.

"My brother. He'll understand why," With a sigh Mycroft adjusts the way he's leaning against his umbrella and continues, "You have that effect on him. Unfortunately it seems that I will never know how, but you somehow made the man show emotions."

 _Stop having this silly little conversation and do what you came here for._

Waiting a few moments in case the government official wasn't done John asks, "Are you done now?"

"I do suppose so."

 _Good._

"Want to say any dignified last words?"

 _Kill. Him._

Smiling a bit the older man says, "My true last words and wishes are in my will. At the moment I'm just waiting for the end."

 _See? Even he's ready for it._

Gun still trained on the politician, John says, "You deserve this." And then pulls the trigger, effortlessly ending a man's life.

With grim satisfaction John watches Mycroft Holmes' body collapse onto the floor, umbrella clattering not far behind.

 _I knew I could make you do it._

And then John wakes up.

 **oOoOo Yesterday oOoOo**

When the detective and blogger reach the morgue Molly is out (on yet another soon to be failed date) so they head back home. It takes a bit of convincing because Sherlock was set on breaking into the morgue and looking at the corpses themselves, but eventually they get back out to the kerb. Much to the relief of John, the cabbie that picks them up is silent the entire ride.

John sends a quick text to Lestrade in case he needs to reach them: **Molly wasn't there so we're going back to Baker Street**

When they arrive back at the flat Sherlock goes to sulk and throws a couple of knives into the wall, so, nothing new. John goes up stairs and cuts a bit, and then does the shopping, effectively ignoring the question of why he punched a mirror.

Then when Mrs Hudson comes home they talk for awhile. Around 20.00 Sherlock leaves and then comes back twenty minutes later covered in filth, because it was "For the case, John!". How getting dirty can help a case revolving around the Thames and drowning, John will never know.

After that incident John goes up to his room with the laptop and attempts to surf the internet, blogs a bit, making sure that everyone knows that a) he's not dead, and b) he's NOT MARRIED- really anything so he won't sleep.

But he does eventually sleep, and he has a wonderful dream where he kills Mycroft.

Now he's awake panting, and staring blankly at the wall. He glances to the clock: 1.24. Then in an instant he's up, dressed, outside and calling for a cab.

A cab eventually pulls up, taking longer than usual, so John assumes that it's not one of Mycroft's.

"Where to, mate?"

John thinks about it for a second, he could go to Harry's but it's a ghastly hour and he really isn't on good terms with his sister. He can't go to Mike's, he's out of the country. So the doctor settles on Lestrade's place.

After giving the address to the DI's flat, John spends the rest of the cab ride trying not to think about killing his best friend's brother. And also, now the voice in his head is appearing in his dreams? What the hell?

 _You can't get rid of me._

John immediately stills, as if that will help. He stares out the window and tries to void his head of any thoughts. It takes far too long to get to Lestrade's, but the instant he sees it John throws some pounds at the cabbie then jumps out before the car has even stopped all of the way.

He walks up to the door, but then stands there, finally realizing how this is probably not the best idea. Standing there for a few more long seconds John brings up his hand and knocks on the door.

A minute later Lestrade opens the door, and quickly ushers John in.

"I… Uh," John tries to formulate a response to the silent question of 'Why are you here?', but he doesn't really know. "Hi, Greg."

Pushing him down into his sofa Lestrade smiles softly at him and says, "Hi, John."

"I-"

Lestrade holds up a hand and says, "Not right now. First- tea. It makes everything better. At least that's what my mum always said." John nods and eventually sits down all of the way and leans against the back of the sofa.

Soon enough a cup of tea is thrust into his hands and John mutely holds it while Lestrade comes to sit down next to him. They sit and sip their tea in silence until Lestrade sets his down and says, "For now, let's just look at that hand. Then we'll talk."

John nods and holds his still bandaged hand out for the DI to inspect it. Silently Lestrade unwraps it and turns his hand over to look at the damage. It still isn't pretty, but it isn't infected, so John's got that going for him.

And then surprising the both of the John quietly says, "I killed Mycroft."

Lestrade almost drops John's hand and stares at the doctor. "Wh-. H-"

"Not really," John corrects, knowing that confessing to a murder that hasn't happened (yet) in front of a Detective Inspector is not the best idea. "Dreaming. I killed him while I was dreaming. In my dream. He died in my dream. He's still alive. In real life that is. He's still alive in real life, but not in my dream." Christ, is this how Molly always feels?

Lestrade takes John's cup from his hands and says, "Okay, try to calm down first. I understand that you didn't actually kill the man, but this still has a lot of explaining that needs to happen."

The two of them sit on the sofa in silence for a few minutes before John talks again. "I'm justreallyangryathim."

"What?"

With a deep breath John tries again, "I'm just really angry with him. At least I was, when that whole thing went on."

Lestrade nods, knowing exactly what 'that whole thing' was.

"I thought I wasn't angry at him anymore. Apparently I am."

"John," Lestrade starts, "That's your subconscious, not you. It's understandable to still be mad, but your mind just stretched it. And that's okay."

With a humourless chuckle John says, "No, no, that is not 'okay'. This is far from 'okay'. People who are okay don't dream about murdering their best friend's brother!" Humiliated, John buries his head in his hands.

"If Mycroft Holmes was standing right in front of you, at this very moment, would you kill him?"

The question catches the doctor off guard, "God no! Of course not!"

 _Really? I thought you were better than that._

"See what I'm saying? I know that you don't really want Mycroft dead, and hell, everyone else knows that too. Except you," John frowns, unsure of where this is going. "You have have convinced yourself that you're out for blood. But you really aren't. Just take a step back and remember that you are a rational person."

 _Eh. Not so much anymore._

After a few moments John nods, and relief courses through Lestrade's body.

"Christ Greg, it's just… I wish I could go back to the way things were before." The last bit of the sentence is left unsaid, but Lestrade understands. 'Before John was kidnapped'.

The DI pats a hand on John's good knee and says, "I know mate, me too."

The two spend the next few minutes in silence, each one lost in their own thoughts until John stands up and says something about having to go back before Sherlock deduces anything. Though, knowing him he already has.

John politely declines Lestrade's offer for a ride until the DI insists. The two men ride in silence back to Baker Street, and give each other quick goodbyes.

The doctor then climbs the seventeen steps and spends the rest of the night in misplaced fear.

….

John must've dozed off, because he suddenly wakes from the lovely sound of Sherlock pounding up the stairs.

"John! John! Come quick now, a sixth victim was found!" He bursts into John's room, the only thing on his mind being that the game is on, and not his flatmate's privacy.

Thank God John was wearing a shirt. "Jesus, Sherlock! I was sleeping!" He rubs his eyes a bit before continuing,"What's going on?" He had to admit he was a bit intrigued.

Scoffing, Sherlock says, "Another victim was found, do keep up. And it's your fault that you're tired due to the midnight run you took."

"How'd you know I went out last night?'

"I did not _know_ , I simply observed," Sherlock angrily mutters, before turning to go back to the kitchen. "Hurry now, while the body is still fresh!"

Grumbling something incoherent, John slams his door after Sherlock leaves and pulls on a jumper and some trousers, as well as redressing his hand, even though it's not really necessary anymore. He also glances at his clock - 8.13 - which means he actually got a decent amount of sleep after his nightmare and freak out at Lestrade's.

A few minutes later, when John makes it down the stairs Sherlock is already dragging him out, so no breakfast or tea for him. By now John would've thought that he'd be used to this. But no, how he's not.

In the cab ride over Sherlock jabbers on about drownings, and how water stays in lungs, or something along those lines. The doctor part of John wants to contribute to the conversation, but at the moment he's just working on not falling asleep in the cab. He feels unnaturally tired in this situation. Oh Christ. Greg drugged the tea didn't he. Dammit.

When they get to the scene Sherlock practically runs up, lifting up the police tape, ducking under it and not holding it for John. He then walks straight past the body, and inspects the soil a couple feet away. Sherlock has his ways.

Feeling a bit useless after paying the cabbie, John stands and watches the 'sociopath' until Lestrade comes up to him and puts a hand on his good shoulder.

"Doing alright now?"

"Hmm? Oh yeah. Just fine," Then with a chuckle the doctor adds, "Being mercilessly woken up for crime scenes. Just like normal."

Lestrade smiles a bit too but still says, "Really though, you sure you're okay for being here?"

"Yeah. A bit hungry, but otherwise just fine." John then fiddles with his thumbs, giving himself a distraction from his mind.

 _Trying to ignore me now, John? I thought we went over this!_

After a second John adds, "You drugged my tea didn't you?"

"Uh, you needed to sleep," He awkwardly covers. "If anything else happens you can always come to me, okay John?" John mentally frowns at the amount of times Lestrade keeps bringing up his name.

The ex soldier opens his mouth to respond, but is then saved by his flatmate.

"John! Inspect this body. No, go away Anderson, your team is useless. Better yet just leave all together. From this Earth." Sherlock says, earning a "Sherlock!", a glare, and a "Psychopath" from Donovan.

Pulling on some latex gloves John crouches down and begins his posthumous diagnosis.

 _Still going to humour your detective friend? You know your opinions don't really matter, right?"_

Clearing his throat John says, "Er, let's see. Cause of death is drowning, not hypothermia, but he wasn't far away from that either. He also vomited while in the water, you can tell from his lips… Poison maybe? He's body might've been trying to expel the contents of the stomach."

 _It's silly how our bodies try everything to survive, even when the efforts are all in vain. Don't you agree?_

Great, now his mind keeps asking him questions.

"Brilliant. Wonderful job, John."

Unsure of how to react to the sudden praise John doesn't say anything, and disposes his gloves.

"Come now, to the morgue! I believe I know who our killer is!"

After Donovan mutters "He's like a dog" and John tries to ignore it, the duo gets in a cab and heads to Bart's.

They sit in utter silence until Sherlock sudden announces, "Text Molly we'll be there in ten."

"But we're five minutes away." John states, not reaching for his phone.

"Traffic John, Traffic." The detective grins at his flatmate, and then continues to look out of the window.

Unable to compress a smile John grins back at his flatmate and pulls out his mobile to text Molly.

A few minutes later, John smiles again. Something about being stuck in traffic with an all-of-a-sudden-sulking flatmate makes it feel like everything is almost back to normal.

 _You'll never be normal again._

Almost.

By the time they get to Bart's Sherlock is out of the cab before it pulls up to the kerb, leaving the older man to pay the fees, as per usual. When John turns around, Sherlock has already begun the short trek to the morgue, with John in his tracks.

A few deductions were to be heard as the detective inspects each cadaver, admiring the killer's handiwork.

"Of course!" The detective exclaims, practically knocking the body off the slab. "John! Text Lestrade that I know who the killer is!"

Arms crossed John muses, "Why can't you text him?"

Ignoring the question Sherlock arrogantly says, "Quickly now! Perfect, it all goes together now! Wonderful Molly, just wonderful! I could kiss you!" Sherlock carelessly leaves the bodies exposed and ignores Molly's stutters.

"What? Oh- you… Wait, er… Sherlock?" The mortician tries to hide her flushed cheeks but can't seem to do so, so she busies herself with her work. She hears a "Ta, Molly," from John, and when she turns around again the duo is gone.

"Stupid, Molly!" She murmurs to herself, before going about covering the corpses.

….

During the cab ride John asks, "Hey Sherlock, why haven't you questioned me about the mirror?"

"Oh that? I deduced why you punched it."

Breathing accelerated, John hastily asks, "Why did I do it then?"

"Simple. You were frustrated. Don't bore me with this, John. You should know why you punched it anyway." And with that Sherlock ignores his flatmate for the rest of the ride.

When the two flatmates get home Sherlock stops dead in his tracks before reaching up to open the door, causing his flatmate to almost run straight into him.

"Sherlock?" John questions, his body on full alert. "Everything alright?"

Quietly, as if someone could hear them, the detective responds, "Someone's been here."

 **A/N Did I scare you in the beginning? Muahahaha**

 **Like the chapter (like the cliffy?) Then you should totally make my day and review, even if it's just two words! Everything is appreciated!**


	12. Our Life

**A/N Hey guys, short chapter, but really important shit going down!**

 **Also, this is really important, so please please read! Basically, I have two ways of ending this story (yes, it is slowly coming to an end), and one is happy, and the other one is not. I am more interested in the sad ending, but I want your input. Please keep in mind, that no one dies or anything in the sad ending, and it will be a lot more realistic. The happy ending is going to be less realistic, and more of a work of a miracle, just keep that in mind!**

 **Also- JohnLockSher, thank you for sticking with me! xoxoxo**

 **~Jules**

 **oOoOo**

" _Sherlock?" John questions, his body on full alert. "Everything alright?"_

 _Quiety, as if someone could hear them, the detective responds, "Someone's been here."_

… **.**

"What do you mean, 'someone's been here'? A rather stupid question, John thinks, because he already knows the answer.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock states plainly, fingers ghosting over the knob.

"Mrs Hudson was in the flat? Sherlock, she's always-"

The detective rudely interrupts, "No. He - yes, he's a man - got into our flat through Mrs Hudson."

 _Do you ever realize how much of a prick Sherlock is?_

Bloody great. "I'll phone her," John turns to his flatmate who appears to not be listening. "Er, Sherlock?"

 _Why do you care about the old hag so much? She'll be deeeaaddd soon enough._

Is his head now singing?

"No, no, she's just fine, that's obvious. Grab my phone."

"It's in your pocket. Your coat pocket! It is literally less than a foot from you!" The good doctor exclaims, but still retrieves it for some unknown reason.

"Text Lestrade."

"Text him what?" John asks, giving up on trying to deduce anything. "Also, why couldn't I just use my own phone?"

 _Make your own choices. Use your own phone. Were you always like this? Following everyone elses' orders?_

Finally looking away from the door Sherlock turns around, coat swinging behind him, and says, "Don't be dull John, we're using my phone for a reason. Tell Lestrade that I know who the killer is, and that he paid a visit to our flat."

 _Do this, and now that. Also do this. By all means, do NOT live your own life. Do this for me too, John._

Rubbing a hand over his face John murmurs, "To our flat? You didn't feel like mentioning that earlier?" He then sighs and adds, "He isn't still here though, right?"

"No, of course he's not here right now," The detective says, making a face. "That's elementary, John."

 _Why do you still put up with him? Hell, why'd you ever put up with him? I didn't realize that you were that pathetic._

Yeesh, again with the questions. Now John's mind is bullying itself.

John finally goes ahead and sends the text:

 **Sherlock knows the killer, and he's been to our flat. Assistance needed.**

The reply was immediate:

 **Coming now. Need the whole team?**

John lifts his thumb to reply, but stops short when he realizes that 1. His flatmate is gone, and 2. The flat door is wide open.

"Dammit, Sherlock," John swears under his breath, then more loudly says, "Sherlock!" Before running in after him.

 _Mummy Watson has to always worry about Sherlock, right?_

To the doctor's surprise, when he walks in, the flat looks exactly how it should. Nothing has changed, no flipped chairs, no fires. The only thing that stands different is a written note that sits on their experiment-less table.

"Interesting…" Sherlock nutters to the air, presumably deducing. He then wipes a finger on the counter and makes a noncommittal noise.

Eyebrows knit in confusion John asks, "Sherlock? Aren't you going to read the letter?"

 _Stating the obvious? Really? What a feeble attempt for attention._

"No, don't be boring. I already know who the killer is, the note is just the killer trying to be clever." He then opens and closes the cupboard door a few times too many before digging around his pockets.

Unlike his flatmate, John does actually read the note.

 **Mr Holmes,**

 **I know you've found me, thank's to Miss Marilyn who didn't drown, but died from hypothermia. One does get sloppy in old age. I, on the other hand, want to continue doing what I love. Which is why I am warning you to not tell your dear DI who I am. Because if you do, there will be dire consequences.**

 **Signed, Rupert Myers**

 _Ooh, it's like your life is a dramatic show on the tele. Mrs Hudson would like it, no?_

"Sherlock," John starts, frowning, "Are you sure you don't want to read this?"

Without missing a beat the detective replies, "Yes, yes, of course I'm sure. Just throw it away, why don't you. It's no use for anybody."

 _Think about it though, it could have an interesting theme song too._

"Greg might need it for evidence."

Scoffing, Sherlock replies, "Evidence? What does he need evidence for? I know who the killer is! Evidence is boring. Boring. Bored!" He sudden shouts out, slamming his fist into the counter.

 _Although then again, no one would watch a show about a freak, right?_

"Jesus Sherlock, calm down! Our flat just got broken into, is that not interesting enough for you?"

 _Well, a freak and his friend, who is a consulting detective._

"It's dull John! Can't you see?" Throwing his hands up he adds, "Oh, I need a case-"

"You're on a case!"

 _Not used to you being the freak, right? It's always Sherlock being the freak._

"I solved it!" And with that the detective goes to sulk in his room.

 _To reiterate, why do you put up with him?_

John massages his temples and not-so-gracefully sits down in the not broken chair.

 _You know what sounds great right now?_

Again with the questions.

 _A blade. A nice, cool blade, pressed up against our skin_

John instantaneously stills at that. Not the fact that his mind is telling him to cut (that's nothing new), but it's always been "you". Never "our" anything. It's John's skin, not the voice in his head's skin.

Feeling to exposed in the kitchen for this, John climbs up to his room. And just when he thought his day couldn't get any worse, it did. Monumentally worse.

Because beautifully laid out on his bed is John's little grey box. Most of the contents are spilled out, including his old lighters all on display. Next to the box sits a note, and John doesn't have to get close to know that it's written in the same hand writing.

Some sense finally spilling into the doctor's mind, John closes his door and carefully walks up to his bed as if they were explosives rather than plasters. Having absolutely no desire to touch his belongings, John reads to note.

 **Well, Doctor Watson, this certainly isn't the best habit, now is it? Is this why they locked you away in the Holmes manor? Probably not, given that you still have these. It'd be quite the shame if someone found out, wouldn't it be? Quite the shame, Doctor Watson, quite the same.**

The back of John's mind tells him to calm down, sit down, do anything to stop his hyperventilating.

 _Quite the problem we have now, and I not wrong?_

"Stop…" John murmurs, "Not… Not we. It's just me. You're not here!"

 _If I'm not here, then why on Earth are you talking to me?_

Shite, did he say that outloud? Now he really is going crazy.

 _Can you talk with me? I've been ignored for so long._

John abruptly stands from his bed, then collects everything and puts it back into his little grey box. He then stows it underneath his bed, where it had previously lived since he'd moved in to 221.

After he's finished with that, there's a knock at the door, so John goes down to unlock it, knowing that Sherlock won't. Unsurprisingly, Lestrade walks in.

"You alright there?"

"Hmm?" John asks, trying to ignore his jumper scratching the sensitive skin on his stomach.

"You look a little bit… Rattled." The DI clarifies, still looking at the doctor with a strange face.

"Er, you know, I'm fine. Just, everything that's been happening." Eager to change the subject John nods to the table and said, "The murderer left a note. Thought you'd want to check it out."

"Ah Christ. A note?" Lestrade runs a hand through his hair and says, "By the time this is all over I'm not going to have any hair."

John laughs a bit at that and shows Lestrade to the table and to their one working chair. "Apparently the killer's name is Rupert Myers. Ring a bell?" John mentally curses himself for saying that, due to the threat of something bad happening. Oh well. No point in mentioning it now.

"Rupert? No, but Myers is familiar. Darrein Myers robbed a few banks some time ago, but nothing close to cold murder." The DI says, racking his brain for any more information.

Handing off the letter John says, "Here you go. Sherlock didn't read it. He was convinced that it was useless."

Smiling, Lestrade says, "Yeah, sounds like him. Speaking of which, where is he?"

"Sulking in his room."

"Sounds even more like him. Now, this note." Lestrade finally latches his eyes onto the page and begins to read. By the end, he's frowning, but he forgets about his upside down smile when he looks away and sees John.

The DI immediately stills, and slowly lowers the note. "John?" He wearily asks, taking in the good doctor fully.

John is barely standing, shaking and hyperventilating, as well as a look of pure fear on his face. Lestrade doesn't know how he went from calm and collected to terrified, and he doesn't really want to know.

Knowing that the other flatmate is still in his room Lestrade quietly calls for him, as to not provoke the man in front of him. "Sherlock? Can you come out here?" The inspector then reaches out his right hand toward his friend, which turned out to be the wrong thing to do.

John responds in almost the same second, "No! No, get-get away!" He starts to back away, in an effort to protect himself.

 _Really? I thought that we were stronger than that. Whatever happened to that soldier inside of us?_

A growl comes out of John before he speaks again, surprising Lestrade and now Sherlock, who has silently come out of his room. "Not true. Not 'us'! Never us! It's just me!" Then more quietly she adds, "Jus-just me…"

 _Oh, but that's not quite true, now is it?_

"John?" Through the back of John's mind he hears someone calling his name, but he can't pinpoint who's saying it, and now the world is spinning…

Seeing John sway, Lestrade instinctively reaches out to steady him, but he instead is greeted with the surprising strength of the ex soldier.

Holding the DI's arm in a vice, John stares him down, obviously not recognizing him as the well known Detective Inspector. And then in an instant John jerks Lestrade's arm down, eliciting a nauseating pop, which seems to echo around the small flat. Thank goodness Mrs Hudson is out doing the shopping.

Along with the pop comes a half groan half yell from Lestrade, which in turn finally snaps John out of whatever he's in.

When he finally sees what's happening around him, John holds his breath for a good four seconds, watching Lestrade pant, look down, and clutch his shoulder. "Oh God.." John eventually chokes out. He runs to the flat door, eager to get out of this nightmare, before Sherlock steps in front of him and prevents him from leaving.

"John, no, John, look at me. John!" In a rare display of affection Sherlock grasps his friend's shoulders, and forces him to look up. "John, calm down. Just stay here for a minute. Please?"

Between new forming sobs, John slowly nods, but then falls down to his knees. He doesn't think that he'd have enough strength to go anywhere even if Sherlock wasn't blocking the door. "Lestrade?" John murmurs into the floor, refusing to do anything else.

But when Sherlock doesn't answer (or Lestrade himself) John is forced to look back up. What he sees is Lestrade leaning over their one functioning chair, holding his shoulder in pain. Lestrade also glances up to look at John, and before he can stop it, a look of fear and a tad bit of betrayal crosses his face. He tries to hide it immediately after, but he knows that the doctor saw it. The damage was done.

John pushes Sherlock away, bewildering all three of the men with his strength, and leaves Baker Street.

The two detectives continue to stare at the open door, as if John will come back.

But they know better.

John is not going to be coming.

He's not going to be back to normal any time soon.

Through the pain, Lestrade knows that the world has just lost a wonderful man.

He then gives Sherlock a look, takes out his mobile, and texts Donovan.

 **I'll be late -GL**

 **How long? -SD**

 **As long as it takes -GL**

And with that cryptic text, Lestrade finally lets himself slip.

"We've fucked up. We've fucked up good."

 **oOoOo**

 **A/N Please please talk to me about endings, even if you have your own ideas or anything! I just really want some input from you all :)**


	13. Symptoms and Diagnosis

**A/N Mmkay so I'm going ahead with the happy ending, because more people asked for it (although it was closer than I had anticipated).**

 **And another apology to JohnLockSher for accidentally blocking you (I somehow managed to do that...) :)**

 **~Jules**

 **oOoOo**

John didn't know where he was going.

 _But that's not quite true, now is it? We know where we're was going. We know exactly where we are going. Don't you realize that we're walking through alleyways, in an attempt to avoid CCTV cameras?_

The good doctor spends the better part of six hours wandering around the sketchy parts of London, at times avoiding the people, and at other times purposely walking in their paths. He doesn't know what he's doing. All he knows is that he dislocated his friend's shoulder because his brain told him to.

 _Jooooohhnnnn. Stop walking around! Let's go find some place to settle down! Or better yet go provoke someone in a sketchy alley._

With minimal effort, the ex soldier climbs over a cinder block wall, leading him to a closed off section between two crumbling buildings.

 _Looks a bit post-apocalyptic, does it not?_

Groaning, John lightly pounds his head against one of the buildings, but then stops when he realizes that the voice in his head is happy about it.

 _You know, if you do this enough it'll give you a concussion. Wouldn't that be fun?_

"Back to 'me', not 'us'?"John talks into the air, regretting it a second later. He's not crazy.

 _I suppose so. No one wants to be related to you, not even your subconsciousness. Or your family for that matter. Do you think that's the reason why innocent little Mummy committed suicide and left you when you were just a wee boy?_

"Sod off," John murmurs. "Can't you just leave?" So much for the 'no talking to the air'.

 _Do you ever wonder if I'm here for an actual_ reason _? Or do you just think that I'm here to traumatize you?_

 _Because really, I may be here to help._

"In what world are you here to help me? So far all you've done is made me hate my prick of a flatmate."

 _See? It's working. Since when is Sherlock a prick? In your views anyway._

John groans and buries his head in his hands.

 _But that's not my point. Because I'm really just you, I die when you die. And that's going to happen sooner than later, because of this nasty little habit going on. So I'm going to tell you right now, go tell someone about your little grey box._

"What the fuck are you? Now you're trying to help?" John questions back, giving up on the whole, 'not crazy' thing.

 _It's all in personal benefit, not because I care. Again, when you die, I die. So, get out of this place before you get shot._

The doctor does in fact pick himself up, and hoists himself over the cinder block wall while murmuring, "Bloody insane."

He doesn't go back to 221B, surprising not even the voice in his head, but instead goes to an art shop.

There, he picks out the thickest marker he could find and a pad of cheap-ish (it's an art store, the paper there is never cheap) paper, then goes to the nearest intersection. With a single glance around one of the buildings he sees a camera, and begins to write on the pad.

 **MYCROFT**

John holds up the sign until the camera has focused on him, which takes an alarmingly short amount of time.

He then rips the top one off and begins to write on the one below it.

 **DONT TELL**

Rips it off, before continuing,

 **SHERLOCK**

After holding that one up for a few long seconds, he takes it down and thinks real hard about what he's going to say. John knows that he has to be careful with his words, otherwise Mycroft will easily deduce what is going on.

So, he starts with something simple.

 **IM FINE**

Rips a new piece of paper and completes,

 **FOR NOW**

Hoping that it sounds like a complete sentence and not an add on as an additional thought.

What he really wants to ask is if Lestrade is okay, but there's no way that Mycroft can talk back to him. He's about to write another thing when the camera suddenly begins its normal sequence of turning around 90 degrees. That's strange.

Mycroft would take time to listen to him, right?

 _Maybe he doesn't care, like everyone else._

Oh Christ, not know.

John waits five minutes, but then leaves after no suspicious black car pulls up to the kerb.

As silly as it sounds, John is starting to get a bit worried. Even more so, since the voice in his head has stopped barraging him with thoughts and questions.

Not in the mood to deal with any of Sherlock's merciless deductions, he decides to call Lestrade. It's been a couple hours, so by know he should have some good pain meds in him.

After four agonizing rings, Lestrade finally picks up.

"John?"

"..."

"John?"

Oh right. This is the part when he is supposed to talk. "Oh yeah… Um hi."

"Hi." Lestrade replies, ignoring the obvious.

"I just wanted to, um, check-" Cutting himself off John finally spits out what he wants to say. "Oh Christ Greg, I am so sorry for what I did, I don't know what came over me, I just- just… God."

Taken back by the response and the speed it took for John to calm down, Lestrade just replies, "It's well, uh, alright I suppose. Just do one thing for me, yeah?"

"Of course, anything."

"Go back to your therapist. Please. If not for you then for all of us, your friends. We've been watching you slowly fall apart."

"I- wait, what?"

"John," Lestrade starts, settling into the sofa that he's currently sitting on, "We may not all be Sherlock Holmes, but we're not oblivious either. Each time I see you it seems like you're just getting worse and worse, and Sherlock hasn't said anything because he's a prick and doesn't want to ruin anything more than he already has."

"Um. Oh. Sorry…?"

"Don't apologise, just go back to your therapist."

"Right, I uh, I will."

"Thank you. It's quite the relief to all of us."

There's a few moments of silence until John says, "Wait, one more thing,"

"Yeah?"

"Did any CCTV cameras follow you when you went home?"

"What?"

"The cameras at the top of the buildings-"

"No, no," Lestrade clarifies, "I know what they are, but why are you asking?"

John rubs a hand on his face and says, "I don't know, I've just got this feeling. Like something happened to Mycroft."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure he's okay. He's got all of his people to protect him anyway. And to be honest, I wasn't really paying attention to the cameras on the way home."

"Okay." John says, queuing another silence, neither one of them wanting to hang up or say 'bye' first. "Your shoulder okay?"

"Er, I suppose so. Not a bad dislocation, it's alright."

"I really am, sorry. I still don't know… Something just,"

"It's alright. You're not at your best, anyone can see that."

Not sure how to respond to that John just replies, "Oh. Okay." He then clears his throat before asking, "Do you know where Sherlock is?"

"Does anybody ever know where Sherlock is?" Lestrade questions back, eliciting a chuckle from the doctor on the other end. "But in actuality, no. He went out minutes after you left."

"Okay. Well uh, I'm going to go try and find him I guess."

"Okay. Bye."

"Ta."

John then ends the call before anything else can happen, stupidly paranoid about everything at the moment.

And where is Mycroft? A quick glance up to the buildings tell him that the politician is not point blank watching him.

John even feels a little bit concerned, which is quite silly. There's no reason to be concerned.

Even so, he still ends up sending a quick text to the man, despite the voice in his head making fun of him.

 **I really am alright. do you know where sherlock is?**

The good doctor then stares at his phone for a few seconds, waiting for the immediate reply that he always receives when texting Mycroft, but it never comes. Determined to not waste his time worrying about the powerful man, John heads around the better parts of London, letting his mind wander. When he checks his watch again it's already six, so he decides that it's time to head home.

He hails a cab, and to his concern one doesn't immediately pull up, signalling that Mycroft is not watching, and is not being helpful.

On the cab ride over John fiddles with his thumbs, wondering why the voice in his head is getting so quiet.

"There you go now. 15."

The driver has a foreign accent that John can't quite place, until the voice in his head spits out the answer.

 _He's German. Not too difficult to figure out._

John then politely passes the five and ten pound note to the driver, as opposed to his usual rushed tossing of currency.

When he goes up to the flat it is unlocked, which doesn't tell him anything about the population inside, as the flat is always unlocked. But he walks in and finds out that no one is home, causing John to cringe at their unlocked door. When would Sherlock learn?

"Mrs Hudson!" He calls out, knowing that the old woman is often in their flat. He gets no answer though, so he settles into his chair, not exactly sure what to do.

 _You could cut._

Now is really not the greatest time, but it sure would calm John's nerves. Speaking of nerves, what if Sherlock found out about John's box? After all, it was all on display on his bed.

Deciding that he needs to check on his little grey box, John jumps up from his chair and climbs the steps up to his room. To his relief, it lays exactly where he left it, or rather, exactly where Rupert Myers left it.

But the relief quickly fades.

The note still glares at John, words sticking out like "habit" and "quite the shame" sticking out to greet him. He really can't deal with this right now. It was such a bad idea to come up here.

John can feel his hand start to tremble, and curses at himself for it.

Hoping that it will help, he goes back downstairs, and makes himself a cup of tea. Since the time that Sherlock made tea, they only have a few mugs left, which makes John smile a bit. What he wouldn't do to have Sherlock attempt to make tea for him again.

While the kettle boils John gets some sense and sends a text to Sherlock.

 **I'm Back at baker street**

Before he even sets his mobile back on the counter, it chimes back.

 **Are you hurt? -SH**

With with a surge of pride knowing that he's the only one Sherlock asks is alright, he texts back,

 **No**

 **Okay. I'm coming back then. -SH**

Not knowing if this is a good thing or a bad thing, John goes ahead and gets another mug out of the cabinet, and waits a few more minutes until the water is boiled.

Just as the tea finishes steeping, Sherlock bursts through the door, coat flapping behind him. He doesn't even bother closing it when he sees John standing in the kitchen, looking awfully normal for just dislocating his friend's shoulder earlier in the day.

Clearing his throat John says, "Hi."

"Hi."

The two men continue to awkwardly stare at each other before John steps to the side, offering Sherlock the other cup of tea, which sits on the counter. Showing no fear toward his flatmate (thank God, John thinks) Sherlock walks up and grabs the cup.

"So," John starts, drawing his face away from his own cup. "How a-

"You've been experiencing schizophrenia like symptoms." Sherlock interrupts, causing John to choke on air. "It appears that all of your therapists are useless. But these are new, forming not too long ago, probably from the experience with Brenton. Strange though, because symptoms usually occur in ages around twenty, but trauma can change everything."

Not knowing how to respond, John continues to stare. Sure, he'd thought of this for a second, his doctor brain firing off diagnosis since symptoms started, but it's not like he wanted to agree with this.

"You've been dealing with it surprisingly well, I do have to say-"

This time it was John's turn to interrupt. "How long have you known?"

"A few days." Sherlock calmly replies, taking a sip of his tea after answering.

"Wha-? A few days! Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me?"

Cocking his head to the side the detective answers, "It never seemed to come up, and I felt like telling you out of nowhere wouldn't be the best idea."

With a sigh John says, "Sherlock, that's exactly what you just did."

"Yes, but it's relevant now." Then before John can respond the Consulting Detective says, "But see, I know what helps."

"Oh Christ," John murmurs.

"You're brain has never quite been normal. Don't look at me like that! You've known it too. What person wants to go back to war and is addicted to adrenaline?"

"Sherlock, get to the sodding point." The good doctor mumbles, patience wearing thin.

"Over the past few months that's what's been withheld from you! Cases! Adrenaline! Just like a junkie when his supply has been taken away."

Groaning and tiredly looking up at the ceiling John whispers, "Bloody Hell." The doctor knows that Sherlock is right. He's always right, isn't he.

"I explained that to Greg," Sherlock continues, and can't help but grin at knowing he's perfectly deduced John yet again.

"Is that why he was so okay with me when I called?"

"Absolutely appalling grammar, John, but presumably yes. Now, we need to find a case! Better yet, I need to find my idiot of a brother and punch him for giving you another useless doctor."

"I wouldn't mind punching him myself, actually," John says back, then returns his attention to the rapidly cooling tea in front of him. A few seconds go by before John remembers and says, "Have you heard from Mycroft today?"

"I hope not." Sherlock replies immediately after, with one of his genuine smiles that only his flatmate gets to see.

John grins back, but he asks again, "Really though, have you? He randomly stopped following me on CCTV cameras, and I can't help but be worried, especially with Myers' note."

That got the detective's attention. "Give me the note. John! Note!" He says, dropping his cup and letting it shatter. At this rate they won't have any cups by Monday.

"Christ, calm down! It's still on the table, where Greg left it," John does not add that he left it there because John dislocated his arm.

Sherlock then practically dives to get the note, almost knocking John over in the process. He then scans it once, twice, before slamming his fist on the table.

"Where were victims dropped… Where were the victims dropped… Where were- John!" He sudden shouts causing the older man to flinch. "Shut up, shup up! Where were the victims dropped! Ahg! I deleted it because the case was solved!"

"Sherlock, calm down, what's going on?" John tries to reasonable question, but that seems to be in vain.

"Where were the victims dropped?!"

"Vauxhall. Vauxhall bridge." John answers, setting his tea down (keeping the mug intact, mind you), preparing for… Something.

Then, already halfway out the door Sherlock says, "Quickly now, John! Time is of the essence!"

So, preparing for that. And just like old times, without missing a beat John can't hide his grin as he runs out of the flat, not locking the door, chasing after a criminal.

Just like old times.

 **oOoOo**

 **I hope this made you feel a bit better about John. Also, reviewing makes me awkwardly smile in public, so if you want a person somewhere to grin at people that she doesn't know, please review!**


	14. Quite the Shame

**A/N Sorry for the late update some stuff has been going on in my life.**

 **Dedicated to JohnLockSher, sorry I've been so distant lately.**

 **~Jules**

 **oOoOo**

Sherlock, who somehow was able to whip up his scarf in a perfect manner, stood on the kerb waiting anxiously for a cab. John stood alongside him, guilt coursing through his system for feeling excited, rather than worried.

As soon as a cab pulled up Sherlock shouted instructions at the poor cabbie, and just this time John doesn't both apologising.

The sky is already turning a murky purple, the day gone completely by. Well, not the entire day.

After a few painstakingly quiet minutes, John tries to talk to his flatmate. "Wha-"

"Silence, John!" Sherlock interrupts, without looking at his flatmate.

"Sherl-"

"Simple instructions, John! Now stop wasting my time!" Sherlock spits back out, sending a nasty glare in John's direction.

"No, shut up and listen for a second," The good doctor chooses to ignore the faces his flatmate is making. "What happened to Mycroft?"

"Kidnapped. Myers kidnapped my brother in a stupid attempt to get me to worry," Sherlock says hastily, trying to get back to his mind palace as quickly as possible. "It's not like it worked anyway."

"I'd say it works," John points out, earning him another glare.

"Now quiet! I need to go to my mind palace!"

This time, John does stay quiet for the sake of his friend, even though he still has many other questions.

The cabbie also doesn't dare say anything, and speeds through London, sensing the predicament that the two men are in. Things are scarily silent, until Sherlock randomly bursts out, "Text Lestrade, he's closer. Quickly now, time is of the essence!"

John grumbled something inaudible, but still sends the text, knowing that the politician's life may be at stake.

Minutes begin to feel like hours, and John can tell that his flatmate is getting nervous, even if he loathes to admit it.

More minutes pass by.

And more after that.

Sherlock is fiddling with his hands, and John is trying not to notice. It's not like Sherlock to feel this anxious.

As always, when the cab arrives, Sherlock is out of it before it comes to a stop. John quickly follows, throwing a few pounds at the driver, just as it was before.

The cab turns back around while John and Sherlock run up the bridge. Lestrade must've done something, because the bridge itself is almost completely empty. But that's not what the duo are focusing on. They're focusing on an unconscious Mycroft, held up by none other than Rupert Myers.

Five metres away from Rupert stands DI Lestrade, his good arm holding a gun. Just seeing the sling makes John feel guilty.

Noticing the detective, Rupert says, "Ah, Sherlock! Wonderful that you could make it. It'd be such a pity if I went through all this trouble to get your brother if you never came. He's rather protected. More than the queen, as it seems."

John then pulls his own gun from his waistband and points it at Rupert. "Rupert, I need you to step away from the edge." John says, his hand perfectly still.

Surprising everyone on the bridge, Rupert lets out a laugh. He then says in a rather leisurely voice, "Why, John? Worried I'm gonna try and jump off? Speaking of which, you ever consider something like that?"

John hopes he didn't show any reaction to that statement, because he knows that Sherlock is curiously watching him. Now's not the time for Sherlock to learn about his little "hobby".

Now it's Lestrade's turn to speak. "Myers, put Mycroft Holmes down," (that's a sentence he didn't think he'd have to say in his life) "Slowly, and then step away from the railing of the bridge."

With a far too confident shrug Rupert says, "Okay then. I guess so." Then, as promised, he lays Mycroft on the ground, a bit too careful for John's liking.

Then, weaponless, Sherlock begins to walk up to Rupert and his brother, heart pounding.

"Sherlock," John warns, but keeps his gun trained on the fugitive.

"See John," Rupert stars, letting his shoulders droop. "I've read quite a bit of your blog. I remember reading - multiple times - that Sherlock is a sociopath, but, well... I don't quite believe that. And I know the _perfect_ way to test that theory."

"Sherlock," John says again, more urgency evident in his voice.

"But first-" Rupert then grabs handcuffs from the pocket of his jacket, and with brilliant efficiency grabs one of Sherlock's wrists and cuffs him to the railing of the bridge.

"Damn it," John mutters under his breath. "Sherlock!" He says louder, making sure that his flatmate is alright.

"Step away from the edge!" Lestrade shouts, taking a step closer.

With a mock pouting face, Rupert says, "Aww, poor little crippled DI. I bet you're not even supposed to be working with that. But you want to be important, don't you?"

"Step away!" Lestrade repeats, not letting Rupert get to him.

"Hey, I bet you can't swim with that sling, am I not wrong?"

John glances over to his flatmate, who appears to almost be hyperventilating, as if he knows what's going to happen next. Actually, knowing him he probably does.

"Oh well." Rupert sighs, and then picks up Mycroft with a surprising amount of strength, and throws him.

Straight.

Into.

The.

Thames.

The three stupidly turn to see where Mycroft could've landed, giving Rupert time to run away.

"Mycroft! Mycroft!" Sherlock begins shouting, muffling the sounds of a gun going off. He twists as much as he can with one hand cuffed to the bridge, trying to deduce the survival rate of his brother, but his stupid, stupid brain won't work!

At the same time, John drops his gun, and runs around the side of the bridge, trying to find the lowest point so he can jump in. Unfortunately, it's almost completely dark, and John can't see shite.

The lowest point is still a fair bit above the water, and John knows that this isn't exactly ideal. But then again, everything about this situation isn't ideal.

Ignoring Lestrade's warning, John dives into the water, silently hissing when his wrist comes in contact with the water and sends a sharp ray of pain through his arm.

He swims for far too long in the cold water, then kicks to the surface, lungs desperately needing air. But as soon as he gets much needed oxygen, he swims back down, jumper adding weight in his descent, because it's utterly soaked.

Then, in something that could only be described as a miracle, John's fingers latch onto the fancy shirt of one Mycroft Holmes.

If he wasn't completely submerged under who knows how much water, John would cry with relief.

Getting them both to the surface is a different story though. It takes far too long, and John's lungs and chest start to burn. When he get to the surface he coughs violently, and almost forgets to pull the politician's head up with him. He then awkwardly paddles to the shore, coughing the whole time, and wishing that Mycroft would start doing to same.

He finally pulls himself and the elder Holmes up to a sandy bit of land, almost not noticing the cries of Lestrade and Sherlock.

Both of the detectives come down to the little beach John's laying on, and distantly John wonders what Sherlock used to pick the lock in the handcuffs.

Between painful coughs John says, "Pulse. Check pulse first. And then- then check breath-breathing."

The coughs becoming too much for his body, John leans to his side and vomits, grimacing when all that comes up is bile and tea.

"Mycroft! No!"

At that, John turns around to see Sherlock with a face or pure worry, something he hasn't seen before, and Lestrade administering one-handed chest compressions (not very useful, mind you).

Pain and nausea forgotten, John tells the DI to perform rescue breaths as he takes over compressions. Each time he presses down on the politician, his wrist screams a bit, but it's easy enough to ignore.

For the second miracle of the day, Mycroft spasms and begins to cough. With a sigh of relief, John turns him on his side, and continues to do his own coughing. How much water got in his lungs?

"Oh God…" John murmurs, leaning against a mouldy plant, taking a much earned breather.

Everything else seems to happen in a blur after that, the only thing he remembers is Sherlock's crying and Lestrade's panicked talking.

EMTs come, giving the illusion that everything will be alright.

Mycroft is loaded in an ambulance, doctors shouting something that John would understand if he could just listen to something other than his own laboured breathing. He still can't breath correctly, which can't be a good thing. John just tells himself that he'll eventually just cough up all of the water, and then he'll be okay.

Then people around him are mentioning words like "hypothermia" and shove blankets at him. Worrying everyone, even Sherlock, who for some reason cares about his flatmate more than his was-just-dead brother, John continues to stare out into the Thames, ignoring the blankets being thrust at him.

One of the EMT's go up to John and tug off his jumper, which makes sense for many reasons. Hypothermia the main one.

Of course, John's not thinking about hypothermia.

No, he's thinking about the ruby scabs littering his stomach and chest.

He's thinking about the dead skin, slowly peeling off from burns.

 _Quite the Shame, Doctor Watson._ Myer's words bounce all around his skull. _Quite the shame._

He hears gasps all around him, as he tries to hide in one of the blanket, but fails miserably.

And why is he still coughing?

John really wants to cover himself, it feels like him and his scars are on display in the museum, but all he can thinking about his how he can't breathe.

Someone, presumably a doctor is talking about oxygen, and John wants to shout out that 'Yes, I'm not getting enough', but everything is all blurry and he can't focus on anything, even the voice in his head is all jumbled up.

Distantly, he can tell that Sherlock and Lestrade haven't done anything else, but instead continue to stare at John's stomach, and the self-inflicted damage that ruins it.

Then finally _finally_ his body and brain agree on one thing: Let's pass out now.

All things considered, a small sandy bay beside the cold Thames isn't too much of a shabby place to lose unconsciousness.

…

Almost seconds after John passed out, Sherlock is waved over to ride in the ambulance containing his very much alive brother. Sociopathic tendencies forgotten, Sherlock quickly climbs in, and watches the EMT's work their magic, somehow keeping his brother alive.

In a chamber of his mind palace the room for John is all in pieces. Somehow there are gusts of wind, coming out of nowhere, knocking down all of the carefully placed books and documents, making the room seem like it's in warfare.

Mentally, Sherlock locks the door to that, telling himself that he'll deal with it later. Right now, Mycroft should be the centre of his attention.

But it isn't.

Why not?

Instead, Mycroft _and_ John take up the parts of his highly functioning brain, making even his eyes hurt.

Thankfully, the ride to the hospital is uneventful, but at the end Sherlock is forced in the family waiting room, and a pamphlet about some therapist or something is thrust into his hands. He discards this faster than he can deduce a murderer.

Too exhausted to argue with nursing staff, or tell them which co-worker they're sleeping with, Sherlock pulls his knees close to his chest and curls up in a ball in one of the few hospital chairs that has padding on the bottom.

By the time Lestrade finds him, ten minutes later, Sherlock is in his mind palace, trying to navigate all of the hallways that contain John. It proves to be rather difficult, seeing as how everything in his mind palace now have some part of his flatmate.

The DI not-so-gracefully sits down next to him and slouches down so his face falls into his hands. "How," Lestrade starts, the takes a breath before continuing. "How did we not notice?"

Sherlock makes a short noise, then begrudgingly goes out of his mind palace. Clearing his throat he asks, "Is John alright?"

Sitting up right, Lestrade mutters, "Er, I think so. He was having some trouble, um, breathing, but he's alright now. They have him down in psychiatry at the moment," The greying man continues, answering the unasked question. "And, well, the only person that could get him out of that is your brother, which isn't happening any time soon."

Sherlock squints his eyes a bit, then jerks his head up, remembering something useful. "Anthea,"

"What?"

"Text Anthea. She's my brother's something-or-other, and she has authority." The Consulting Detective clarifies, itching to see his friend.

"That's great and all, don't have her number," Lestrade says, sitting back into his chair, prepared to get comfortable due to the duration of the supposed stay.

Grinning because he can't help himself, Sherlock notes, "But you have my brother's number. Anthea will respond to it. They have a system that I've never really quite understood."

With a sigh Lestrade says, "Of course they have a 'system'. I'll go text her then."

After sending a text and stashing away his mobile, Lestrade asks, "Want any coffee or anything? Seeing as how we'll probably be here for the night?"

As a response Sherlock just waves him off and pulls his legs closer to his body. As the DI walks toward the cafeteria, Sherlock reaches to pull up the collar of his belstaff, before he realizes that it's not on his shoulders.

Of course, it's still with John.

Probably not actually, since they've long since changed him into a hospital gown and put his clothes in a bag somewhere.

Knowing that talking to the hospital staff as a 'friend' not 'family' will be useless, Sherlock closes his eyes, and begins to end the tornado that is John's room.

Sherlock doesn't know how long he stays in his mind palace, but when opens his eyes to the shitty outside world Lestrade and Anthea are talking a few feet from him, both of them with concerned faces.

"...should be okay," Lestrade says, Sherlock catching on mid-sentence.

"Yes, thank you again for that." Anthea replies, and for one of the first times Sherlock sees her face without the glow from her BlackBerry.

"You really shouldn't be thanking me," Lestrade mutters, selfless as always. "John's the whole reason why you're arranging a private room and not a funeral." With a sigh he continues, "I, on the other hand, was a bit useless in this situation. Didn't even catch the man."

"Actually," Anthea starts, "The last shot you fired hit him in the arm. Of course not killing him, but he was found unconscious a few kilometres up the road."

Lestrade stares at Anthea with disbelief. "Wait, really?"

"Mhmm," Anthea says nodding, then turns her attention to Sherlock. "The protocol for these circumstances leave you to make any medical decisions regarding Mr Holmes, rather than your parents. And about a month ago Mr Holmes has arranged any decisions regarding John Watson to you, instead of his sister, Harriet Watson. You have a few important decisions coming up, Sherlock." Then, looking directly at the detective Anthea says, "Don't make the wrong ones."

With that she nods at Lestrade and turns her attention back to her BlackBerry, heading out of the waiting room. Sherlock can't help but wonder how she hasn't gotten hit by a haywire bus, with her attention always on her mobile.

Lestrade turns to look at Sherlock, and after a few seconds Sherlock smirks and says, "Need anything, detective?"

With a tired sigh the DI replies, "Don't make the wrong ones."

 **oOoOo**

 **Reviews make me happy :)**


	15. Guess Who's Back

**Author's Note:** Hey all you glorious bastards (jk, jk, you guys are amazing), guess who actually wrote something? That's right, this gal (awkwardly points to myself). First of all, apologies for everyone: I am so very sorry for taking this long. Fifty-four days was far, far, too long. And, I do completely understand if you have lost interest in this story, and don't feel like reading or reviewing. It takes a second grader to realize that I totally skimmed over the cutting parts in this chapter, and expect that for later ones too, because I'm still not all perfect. Yet. But I am improving, and all of the fun stuff. Missed the hospital by a hair a couple weeks ago... So that's something. ANYWAY, this chapter isn't the best, but I suppose it isn't the worst, so without further ado (minus disclaimer): Shouts of the Medic Chapter Fifteen!

 **Disclaimer: If anyone is wondering, my 'sabbatical' did not change the ownership of these characters**

 **Also one last thing: JohnLockSher, I swear to God you are actually the best person on this planet and I fucking love you. xoxoxoxo**

John Watson, a veteran of Her Majesty's royal army, is not the type of man to wake up calmly.

Whether it be on the battlefield, or in a flat waking up from a dream, John does not wake calmly.

Even though the drugs, the good doctor's instincts were on high alert, and laying down in an unrecognizable bed was signalling all types of warning bells.

Firstly, don't open those eyes. The attacker will know that you are conscious, and will take advantage of that. So instead, John uses all of his other senses, however dull they are.

He hears a few muffled voices, but nothing too distinctive. It sounds like english, but one can never be too sure.

John can feel soft and scratchy sheets, confirming his belief of waking up in a bed. But he can't rest easy with that information, it could be a trick.

At the moment, tasting isn't very useful, for he's very familiar with the taste of his own mouth and saliva.

But smelling, that's a useful sense. The familiar sting of antiseptic and ammonia assaults his nose, and John knows exactly where he is.

Hospital.

And then everything comes rushing back to him.

The unforgiving voice in his head, MIA Mycroft, Myers' tricks, bridges, cold water, Mycroft not breathing…

John's eyes spring open, white walls the only thing in his vision. Except for a black ball in his peripheral vision. Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" John croaks out, his voice dry.

The detective's eyes open at the noise, and a smile crawls onto his face. "John!" Sherlock jumps out of his chair and strolls up to his flatmate's side, "How are you? What hurts? You're confused. What are you confused about?"

Ignoring the barrage of questions thrown at him, John simply asks, "Is Mycroft…?"

"Oh yes, he's fine. Well, not completely fine, but alive. He's alive. He'll be healed soon. He's alright now."

John can see the obvious concern in the detective's words, but decides not to comment on it. "Conscious now?"

"Mycroft? Oh no, not yet. Soon though, that's what the doctors said anyway. Absolute imbeciles they are, not telling me anything for hours. _Hours_ John!" Sherlock throws his arms up in the air, adding to his disgust of the doctors.

Sitting up a bit more in the bed John asks, "So why aren't you with him?"

Scoffing the younger man notes, "Because, John, I was waiting in here."

With a sigh John says, "Yes, Sherlock, I-. I know, but he's your brother, which-"

"I know he's my brother. Unfortunately."

John just sighs and rolls his eyes. "But he is going to be alright, yeah?"

"According to the idiot doctors they 'don't know for sure until he wakes up', but yes, it's quite obvious to a brilliant mind like my own, that my brother is indeed 'alright'."

"Oh for God's sake Sherlock! Do you have to act snobby about everything?"

Giving his flatmate a look the detective replies, "Well, yes. Why?"

"Christ." John shakes his head a bit and mutters something inaudible, before a nurse pokes her head in the room.

"Sir, I told you, visiting-" She stops short when she not only sees the glare of Sherlock, but his flatmate. "Oh, Mr Watson, you're um, er, I'll go get-"

"Doctor." Sherlock interrupts.

"What?"  
" _Doctor_ Watson. He's certainly gone through more medical training than you, having only done-"

Now it was John's time to interrupt. "Sherlock," He warns, before giving a nice fake smile to the nurse. "And yes, it'd be great if you could get the doctor."

Hastily nodding she says, "Um, yes, no, I definitely will, but um- well- it is past visiting hours-"

"Is everyone here an idiot?! What I wouldn't do for my damned brother to be awake!"

John gives Sherlock a glare, but he can't help but agree with him in these circumstances. This nurse is already annoying him.

She gives a small nod and turns out of the door, leaving the two flatmates to themselves. An awkward silence fills the room until both of the men try to talk at the same time.

"So-"

"Why did you lie to me?" Sherlock's deeper voice beats John's exhausted one.

"What?"

"I specifically asked if you were 'okay', which Mrs Hudson has been telling me to do. Why didn't you ever tell the truth?"

The older man takes a rattling deep breath and looks up, not knowing how to answer. "There were times when I told the truth. It was just- er- times when everything was just… Too much?" John doesn't really know what he's saying. The littlest child could even tell that he was mindlessly rambling.

Then before Sherlock could speak, he asks, "But I do have one question. Shouldn't I be in a well natured psych ward?"

Quietly the detective answers, "I pulled you at. As it turns out, Mycroft's credentials aren't for nothing,"

"Ah."

Again, a silence fills the small hospital room, but this time a doctor comes in to fill it.

"Doctor Watson, right?" John and Sherlock both whip their heads up to see a fairly young doctor standing at the door frame.

"Yes. That's me."

The doctor nods and says, "Well, nice to meet you. I'm doctor Rambert," Then with a glance to Sherlock he adds, "Sir, visiting hours have ended, I-"

Speaking quickly so his flatmate won't make a scene John says, "It's alright. We've already gone over this. I'm okay with him being here."

Doctor Rambert still looks unconvinced, but he nods anyway, and continues. "Well, if it's been run over by the Head Nurse, I suppose so. Now, let's see, you've been unconscious for the past twenty-two hours, which was beginning to worry me, but I believe that problem has been worked out. You came in with pneumonia, which is still quite affecting your lungs. Any major problems breathing?"

"Not anything new," John replies, which doesn't exactly settle the doctor.

"Right… Well, you've also sprained your wrist, which it from hitting the water from that distance-"

"Yes, yes, that's all very well and everything, but we certainly know all of this information. Something new and useful would be lovely right now!"

"Sherlock!" John scolds, feeling a bit more in place after scolding his flatmate.

"Sir," The doctor starts, "If you continue to disrupt me I will have you removed. And it will not be difficult. You're already not supposed to be in here at this time."

With a smirk the detective says, "Oh yes, why don't you just remove me, because that'll keep me out!"

"Sherlock, go check on your brother or something," John offers, wanting to talk doctor-to-doctor.

With a scoff Sherlock twirls his belstaff that he's miraculously kept with him through the entire accident and all, and leaves the room.

As much as John loathes to admit it, he is a bit relieved that he can get through this diagnosis without the constant comments. He takes a deep breath and looks back at Doctor Rambert. "So, my wrist is just sprained?"

"Yes. A bad one albeit, but just sprained. And I believe that your previous shoulder injury was aggravated from the harsh swimming.

John nods. This, he understands.

"Doctor Watson-"

"John," The blogger replies, hating formalities.

"Right. John, if I may ask, you were originally brought in here to the psychiatric ward, but there were strict rules to take you out, almost immediately. Er, why?"

With a far too harsh sigh John replies, "Just a bit of a bad habit."

Doctor Rambert nods, not pushing anymore. "Alright. Well, the main thing right now is to not use your wrist, or your shoulder for that matter, for a couple weeks. Don't do any strenuous activities that would cause extra work for your lungs either."

John snorts at that. Running around London at top speeds to find murderers? Nope, not strenuous at all.

"You got somewhat lucky, and the pneumonia didn't get too far, so we didn't need to put you on any oxygen, but we'd like to keep it that way."

With a sigh John nods, knowing that although he wishes it wasn't true, his doctor is right. So much for healing and going back to how things were.

Looking a bit uncomfortable Doctor Rambert adds, "And um, the lacerations on your chest were somehow not infected, but we've wrapped the newer ones, and put some salve on them anyhow."

John opens his mouth to say something, but just ends up closing it, a bit annoyed that his doctor asked about the psych ward with full knowledge about his chest. "I have a question,"

"Yes?"

"Can you get any information on Mycroft Holmes?"

"Sorry, doctor/patient confidentiality." Doctor Rambert mumbles out, still looking rather uncomfortable. Then, as if the awkwardness spreads, John asks for him to find Sherlock, and to bring him back in.

Four and a quarter minutes later Sherlock walks in, his hair ruffled twice as much as the last time. Breathing also a bit laboured John asks, "Sherlock, what were you doing?"

His cryptic answers was simply, "Idiotic hospital staff. Have to find everything for myself."

"Sherlock, for Christ sake. You can go back to the flat, you know. If this place is tearing at you from the seams, then by all means, go solve a murder." Saying the words makes John want to leave this bloody hospital once and for all. Over the past few months the count of hospital visits has been ridiculously high.

"Nonsense, John! No one else is back home. Even Molly has left the morgue."

"Wha- Molly? Please don't tell me you dragged her out here,"

Rolling his eyes the detective says, "The imbeciles here must be rubbing off on you, John. She came here on her own accord. Granted, it is only a few metres from her work."

After a few moments, John finally settles on something. "Alright, if you're bent on staying here, at least go back to the flat and grab Cluedo. And yes, bring the pieces even if they're 'far from anatomically correct', because the rest of us can't tell."

"John," Sherlock starts before his flatmate has even closed his mouth, "It is obvious that the suit on Colonel Mustard depicts a certain type-"

Pointing out the door John interrupts, "Right then! Off to Baker Street you go!"

Then, with the squinting of one of the flatmate's eyes, Sherlock begrudgingly heads out.

 ***I don't know, an hour or two later…?***

"Sherlock! We have been over this! The 'secret passage' is only through the kitchen, and the killer could not have dug a hole through the mansion!"

"This game is _hardly_ realistic!" Sherlock all but pouts, nearly slamming his cards on the small table.

"That's not the point!" John reasons, but he can't help the smile the comes onto his face. Something about yelling at his flatmate sooths him.

"Then, what on Earth is the point?"

Sighing, the older man says, "The point is to have fun. Maybe try it, once in awhile?"

Countering Sherlock says, "I do have fun. I have fun using my extraordinary brain for useful things, like solving crimes! Perhaps you've forgotten the past years of your life?"

Rolling his eyes John mutters, "Just quiet up and play the game. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two."

"About crime? I hardly think so. I already know more than all of Scotland Yard combined. Maybe you should be playing this game with Anderson."

With the straightest face he can pull off, John says, "No, Sherlock, about playing well with others. See, most children learn this around age three or so, but you were probably already at Uni by then."

Sherlock just huffs as a response, but when he catches John's eyes, he and his flatmate are grinning.

A knock from the open door catches the two's attention, as a nurse peers in.

"Doctor Watson, you should be resting. And you," She says, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock, "Should _not_ be in here at this hour."

Both of the flatmates turn and give her a glare, before she just sighs and mutters something under her breath sounding suspiciously like, "Why the bloody hell did I ever go to school," before saying, "Well, since you two are both awake - _unfortunately_." She pauses for what can only be described as dramatic effect, "Someone dropped off a letter for Doctor Watson."

Instantaneously, Sherlock begins a barrage of questions. "Was there a stamp? Return address? When did you get it? Was it handed directly in? If so, who was it? Did you encounter them in person? Did this person display-"

"Sherlock! Bloody hell, you're scaring her!"

"These need to be answered!" Was his curt response.

Giving a look to his flatmate John looks at the nurse and says, "I'll take the letter, thank you. And you don't have to answer any of my friend's questions."

A look of surprise comes on her face. "'Friends'? Oh, we all thought…"

Lightly throwing his head back in defeat, John murmurs, "Yes, _friends_. That's all now. You can leave. Ta."

As she scurries off John opens the envelope (which, does not have a return address nor a stamp), and reads it.

 **Rupert Myers sends his regards.**

 **He sends his regards to the only remarkable opponent.**

And although John knows that he should be scared, instead he feels like laughing. This all started from a man sending his regards. And hopefully _hopefully_ , this is how it ends. By a man sending his regards.

 **A/N Looks like you made it through! Feel like reviewing? Cool! Don't feel like reviewing? That's also good :) I'm glad you took time to read through :)**


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